Fairy Tales
by a wild jessca appeared
Summary: Every fairy tale needs a good, old-fashioned villain. And every person has their pressure point; someone they want to protect from harm. They're back. It's not over. Let the games commence once more. Rated for violence & language.
1. Dirty Hands

**Chapter One; Dirty Hands**

"I can hear your slow little brain _ticking_."  
He laughed a high, shrill, almost manic noise that ricocheted through the empty apartment.

How he had gotten here, how he had gotten _anywhere_ was beyond John. Had the police not found his body on the roof of that same hospital, a bullet through his head?

But, here he was. James Moriarty was most definitely before him.

Well, unless John had finally fallen off the edge. He had, after all, taken Sherlock's death extremely hard. But, he had been so _alone_ before Sherlock. Living in a dingy, one-room apartment, living off of an insignificant army pension. It had been so dull and so lonely, but Sherlock Holmes had brought back a spark into John's life. Rather, he'd brought back the excitement and fight and the suspense that he had so sorely missed.  
But then he'd watched it all dissolve before him and jump from a roof.

And this man was supposed to have also died on that very roof.

So why was he sat in Sherlock's armchair?

He should have run. He'd come only to reminisce, as he did from time to time. He'd come to remember the good times.  
Instead, he found himself closing the door to the apartment behind himself.

Moriarty was only visible in profile; the manicured brows, the gleaming brown eye and the sadistic grin. It sickened him. "Please," he hummed, gesturing to the armchair opposite him, "Have a seat."

Almost without hesitation, John seated himself in the old armchair and studied James for a few moments. There was not even the slightest clue that he had been even close to death from the front; no scars, no bags, nothing. He looked so healthy. How was this? How was it that he was before John, now, with that crazed smile and those huge, brown eyes?

John hadn't missed it; Moriarty's other hand held a gun.  
He couldn't help but wonder, just for a moment, if it was the same gun he'd shot himself with. He recognised it as a Beretta 92FS; maybe it was the same gun, maybe not.

"I don't really like getting my hands dirty, Dr Watson. It's not something I really do." He said lightly, eyes boring into Watson with some kind twisted intensity. It reminded him – and it sickened him, but it was true -, it reminded him of Sherlock; the way his eyes were so seemingly observant.

Then, his gaze moved away from the doctor and moved to the pistol in his hand, running long, slender fingers across it, as though in a caressing manner.

"Right. I sense a '_but_'." John replied, his own tone a little thick. He didn't understand, not even a little bit. All those months, _years_ with Sherlock and none of it seemed to have rubbed off on him; he couldn't 'deduce' anything from this situation. But, what Sherlock had was natural talent. What John had was nerves of steel and an experience with the most horrid parts of life.

Maddened, brown eyes flickered back up to him in delight. "Ooh, good observation, Dr Watson!" He teased gently, moving his hands in a sudden motion to grip the gun, rather than stroke it. His lips curled into a further, more engaged smirk. "Very good. Hm, yes. The '_but', _the _'but' _John is that for everything to fall perfectly into place-"

He gestured with his hands, as though stroking the air, running his fingers through the space before him and placing them lightly on his knee – as though they had fallen and landed. "Well, I _need _to get my hands dirty. With you. A little dirty."

As though the entire situation had not been bizarre enough, but now John's features twisted in utter confusion. Then horror, anger, but no fear. And then, after a second of contort, his face relaxed. He closed his eyes, drew his head back slightly and he _sighed_. He sighed, as though he was tired just at the idea of this.

"You're bored, Johnnyboy? With me? Oh, that's so sad." Whimpered Moriarty in a mocking tone. He laughed again and leant forwards, "Maybe I'll amuse you then. I can see you have questions!"

Which was true. John did have questions, oh so many questions. First, he supposed, was obvious.

How was Moriarty alive?

But, after so long living and working with Sherlock, John refused to simply _ask_. He wanted to understand, to at least try and use a few of those skills he had watched Sherlock deploy so often.

Ignoring the look of confusion from his adversary as he did so, John leant forwards and rested his elbows on his thighs, interlocking his hands and creating a seat for his head. He studied Moriarty for a moment and then stood up.

The man's gun was instantly raised and followed him. "What _are_ you doing?" he asked with a sort of humoured chuckle.

"Trying to work something out." John replied. He hesitated and turned around, narrowing his eyes as he focussed out of the little window, "I guess there's probably a snipe out there somewhere, like last time?"

Moriarty only grinned; what a fine specimen Dr Watson was turning out to be. He was so much more than ordinary, he kept telling himself, even if he was a long way from the spectacular level that he himself was on. But something of Sherlock Holmes seemed to have been left behind in John Watson; after all, John had spent a very long time following, living and working with Sherlock, and then writing about it, too. How could he not have picked up a thing or two?  
"Yes. So be careful!" He confirmed, extending comically the vowels within 'careful' and watching John with a new level of excitement.

Clumsily, he moved to walk to the side of Moriarty – since Sherlock had left, the war had slowly left him and a dull void had taken a place. When Sherlock had been there, he'd always been helping to fight someone – fighting the war that he missed. Well, now he was not fighting anyone and so he missed it. And when he missed the war, his leg grew more and more uncomfortable. He was already at the stage of needing his walking stick once again.

Moriarty's gaze followed John as the doctor assessed him, focussing hard.

So, maybe he felt he hadn't picked anything from Sherlock, but he was still a doctor – and a bloody good one. No doctor of his calibre would fail to notice the tight, pink scar tissue across the back of Moriarty's head, near the rear of his right ear. Hairs had begun to grow on it, but unevenly and a slightly different shade of brown to the rest. John himself had, so many times, patched up shot wounds. Admittedly, not as many to the head as to other locations, but he had still done so. With little hesitation, he tapped the spot and watched as James flinched and changed his expression to that of displeasure.

And, suddenly, it occurred to him. Oh, that was clever of Moriarty! So clever but so stupid! So clever that John actually had to sit down; anger, absolute rage flooded his mind and tainted his vision.

"You knew you wouldn't die."

The accusation was so simple, so utterly obvious and yet John couldn't mutter it without curling is features in disgust.

"You knew where you were shooting, you knew you were on a hospital roof, you knew you'd be okay! You did it to _trick _Sherlock into taking his _own _life!" yelled the army doctor, slamming his fist against the armchair and cursing under his breath. He was not sure what truly happened on that roof; Mycroft had told him that the two had conversed, that Sherlock had made some form of revelation and Moriarty had shot himself. Then Sherlock jumped. That was all he knew. Mycroft's men had not got to Moriarty's body, Moriarty's men had first. John had got quite angry at first; what if Jim was alive? But his anger had eventually subsided and he had decided to trust the judgement of the Holmes' brothers.  
How wrong he had been.  
His lips pursed and contorted as he fought not only the urge to just attack Moriarty, but to also cry. He turned his head away and instead watched the empty fireplace, trying to calm and focus himself.  
Whilst, opposite him, Moriarty was almost impressed. For a regular person – a soldier, no less -, John had made an intelligent assumption. Not only intelligent, but correct. Now, _God_, that excited him more than anything so far had! The idea that, maybe, John was more than a little pet to Sherlock – though he was a good pet –: maybe John was more of an apprentice. Exciting!

"Oh. You got me, John! Clever boy." He giggled, crossing one leg across the other, whilst his pistol was still poised toward John. Gently, he ran a hand across his chest, brushing his expensive, dark suit down. He let a few seconds pass, allowing John a moment to clear his head, but himself also; organise his thoughts, produce his explanation. Eventually, he broke the silence in a crisp, dry tone, "You're right, Johnny. I had people who knew where I was. See, that's the difference between people like _me_ and people like _you_. I'm prepared to do anything and you're not. But I'm still smart enough to have a little way out of everything!"  
Lightly, he chortled, partly at himself and partly at the hateful expression on John's face. "Of course I knew where I was shooting! I mean, too bad if I'd died, but I was prepared for that. But I didn't. I'm _alive_."

John thought it through carefully. There something stupid like a 2-5% chance of him surviving such a shot to the head; handgun, obviously, not rifle. He could have died of blood loss, or choking. He could have shot his brain, or something else vital, like the carotid artery. But, he was on top of a _hospital_ and his people knew he was there.  
Not to mention, he could probably have taken various drugs before – and most definitely after – to increase his survival. Diuretics lowered the pressure in one's brain, John remembered. He wasn't sure if they would have helped before hand – after all, doctors didn't tend to give their patients drugs before they were injured. And there were plenty of drugs to limit blood-loss.  
Moriarty's intellect was almost similar to Sherlock's, was it not?  
He was important, intelligent. Lucky to be alive, too.

It was clear when he had tapped Moriarty's head that, behind the scar tissue and irregularly-grown hairs, there was metal plating.

Dear God, it angered him so deeply; that Moriarty had voluntarily attempted to take his own life and survived, when Sherlock had everything to live for, _wanted _to live, and wasn't allowed.

John sat back in his seat and slowly drew back his gaze to the man sat opposite him. He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips and folded his arms. His expression and body language had already tensed, curled into a mix of aggravation and weariness. "I can see you're alive, that's kind of obvious." he replied in an almost tedious tone, locking those grey-blue eyes of his onto James. "What isn't obvious is why you're here?"

Delight, humour and excitement each, in turn, crossed Moriarty's face.  
"Oh, yes, now that's the exciting part, isn't it John?" he cooed, a relatively manic expression setting his features alight. Something insane flew to life in his large, dark eyes and he allowed a mischievous chuckle to leave his lips. "I beat Sherlock Holmes and I won, didn't I? Well, I've got to return to playing with the ever so _boring, ordinary_ people. Like you. Sort of."

In that moment, several things fell into place. Moriarty had to get his hands dirty; had to play with John. Maybe it was cocky of him, but John laughed at that thought. How many years had he spent fighting? In violence, always, under pressure, being taunted and played with by fellow soldiers, enemy soldiers… Did Moriarty think he could be different?  
So, what; he had a handgun and someone sat somewhere ready to snipe him. Big deal, it wasn't as though he wasn't used to it – or, he had been used to it once upon a time.. James could hurt him as much as he wanted, anyway. Without Sherlock, the idea of physical pain felt like nothing. Ever since Sherlock had left, there had been nothing but pain; agony, trauma. Inside. Sherlock had been everything; a best friend, a brother, something more? He didn't know. But he knew one thing; any physical pain Moriarty could inflict on him could not even compare to the emotional horrors he faced every second after Sherlock had jumped.

And in response, Moriarty almost looked surprised. Almost. "Something funny, Johnnyboy?" he asked, raising his chin. No answer met him, simply a look somewhere between tired and vaguely amused from Dr Watson. "You look bored. That's good, because I'm bored, too."

What happened next happened very quickly.

Jim moved to slam the brunt of his gun into John's face, probably to try startling the elder man, but John rose to meet it and sent the weapon flying across the room. A smile lit the younger man's face at John's strength – he had anticipated that the other would be a good fighter, but he was getting old now. Just as that thought reached his mind, John swung his fist and hit Moriarty in the face.

John was fairly sure he'd split Jim's lip and broken his nose by the third time he'd punched him. There was blood on his fists and on Moriarty's face and he wasn't sure which of the two was actually bleeding but he didn't care. He really, really didn't care. He was so _angry_. At everything. Everyone. Particularly James Moriarty.

For taking Sherlock.

In his blind rage, he didn't notice as he threw James into the fireplace. James threw back a punch or two and John felt the familiar crunching of fist on flesh into the bone on his jaw, wondering if the other may have actually fractured it.

Quite suddenly, Moriarty took a hold of the skull on the end of the mantelpiece. A strange, protective rage rose in John's chest at the idea that Moriarty was holding something that belonged to Sherlock – it was one thing to have Jim within Sherlock's old apartment, another for him to touch his belongings! The anger was cemented by the fresh pain against his head as Jim hit him with the skull again and again. John wrestled against him as he tried to come down for the third time and slammed the base of it against Moriarty's face, splitting open the skin of his forehead triumphantly, causing blood to run down his face and yet the two of them continued to wrestle over the skull, growling. Very suddenly, Moriarty's arm flew to the side and he made to grab something on the other side of the mantelpiece.

John had been stabbed, before. Twice, in fact.

But that was years ago. That was one of many agonies that he had remembered so vividly and yet those memories were welcomed compared to this.

A slight, uneasy and most certainly uncomfortable gasp escaped John's lips, before he dared to look down. When he did dare, he saw what he had feared.

The bladed side of the multi-tool knife – the one Sherlock had used to pin letters to the mantelpiece, the one that _belonged _to Sherlock was wedged quite thoroughly into his lower chest.

It took everything he had, but John had to ignore it for now. He wanted to freak out, to assess his injury, call himself an ambulance, but he couldn't. He was a soldier and he would not simply give up because there was a little piece of metal inside of him! He judged quite quickly that the knife hadn't seemed to hit a rib, which meant it could have punctured something. Probably not a lung, because he was still stable and though his breathing was shaken, it was not laboured.

John was quite tempted to simply strangle the life out of Moriarty. He'd probably have enough time before he passed out. He also relished the idea of risking his own chances of survival and stabbing Jim with the very same knife. But both ideas were foolish; if he survived and Moriarty died, there would be trouble. Not to mention, he imagined the snipe – wherever he or she was – would shoot him before he had time to thoroughly damage Jim further.

The skull had been dropped on the floor between their feet, but John didn't think he'd get up again if he crouched down to reach it.

In the end, he came to a dirty resolution and simply kneed Jim in the balls. Jim groaned and clutched himself and John, despite the situation at hand, couldn't help but to giggle drowsily as he stumbled backwards. He fell over the arm of the chair he had not so long ago been sat in and collapsed onto the cushions, catching a disturbed glimpse of the blood seeping through his jumper before he slipped from consciousness.

Amongst Moriarty's whines of pain, he heard someone, somewhere, nearby, running. Shouting something.

Was that his name?

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Please point out any flaws! I did a lot of research for this because I haven't a clue, so help would be adored!**

**I'd like to say thank you to my amazing friend, Sgt Peanuts! Love you, thank you for the crit and plot help! Everyone check her dA and Tumblr, she's a fantabulous artist and just generally a fab person.**

**sgtpeanuts . tumblr . com**

**sgtpeanuts . deviantart . com**


	2. Games

**Chapter Two; Let the Games Commence.**

Jim Moriarty.

It was a name that could spark one of three reactions.

The first was that of recognition. Of respect. For Jim Moriarty was the consulting-criminal, he was the man who can do and _have _anything he wanted. He was in control, in power and he was so wonderfully out of his mind, so constantly creating funny, intricate little crimes that one had to hold high regards for him.

The second was that of fear. Of horror. For Jim Moriarty was powerful, strong. He was a man born and raised off insanity, mystery and uncontrollable intellect. He could be anything, do anything, have anything to happen and to many, that was something unbelievably terrifying.

But the final reaction was one of little comprehension. Of not understanding, not knowing the name. Because that was one of Jim's wonderful traits, talents even. He struck fear, horrified many, he was recognised and he created respect from many, but he knew how to be hidden. Nobody got to Jim, not ever.

So John should have felt quite honoured for getting so _close_.

Of course, he had to pay for getting so close.

* * *

It wasn't until late afternoon of the next day that John finally awoke.

His head was spinning and he felt utterly lethargic, a feeling he could only describe as _drugged up_. At first, he didn't quite understand, but his common sense eventually caught up with his thoughts and the memories hit him quite quickly; he was in St Bartholomew's hospital. Something sore ached within him at the memory of this hospital and he knew all too well what it was. He wondered if it was Moriarty who brought him here; to the hospital where Sherlock died. Maybe that was a little sick, he thought. Not only sick but come to think of it, a little stupid. Jim would not have stabbed him and then brought him to a hospital. That was contradictory to say the least.

So how was he here?

Come to think of it, Jim would not have stabbed him. Was it not a little odd for Moriarty to actually physically do anything himself? Did he not usually have shitbrain lackeys to do his work for him?  
His temper, John noticed, was not great. There was a sore pain all over his body, radiating particularly around his chest.

Lightly, he ran his fingers across his ribs, brushing the covers and clothing aside to reveal bandaging that John could only assume would need changing soon.

"Quite bad, isn't it?"

Were John a weaker man, mentally, he would have most likely screamed.

Of course, the ex-soldier and doctor was a near-unshakable man and only jumped, causing a sharp but fleeting pain to execute through him. The fear quite quickly subsided, thankfully, as his clotted mind recognised the voice of the speaker.

"I've had worse." John admitted as he adjusted himself in the bed and sat up, focussing those pale eyes of his onto Mycroft. He wondered, quite curiously, how long the man had been standing there, but was well aware he would not gain an answer from 'intrusive' questions; if there ever was an embodiment of secrecy, Mycroft would quite easily fit the bill.

One eyebrow rose slightly and an agreeable smile rose and fled on the official's lips. "I know." He replied, almost eerily. But that was Mycroft, again. Secretive, all-knowing and a little creepy because of it. Somehow, it never really disturbed John, however. "You're lucky not to have punctured anything. You're also lucky an ambulance arrived so soon. You could have bled out on that apartment floor and that wouldn't have been very pleasant, I imagine."

Though it pained him – he did not particularly like Mycroft, even after all the years – John muttered a, "Thank you."  
Mycroft had, since Sherlock's death, been keeping John under surveillance – and didn't particularly bother to keep it away from John, either. Maybe it was out of guilt; John still held Mycroft partly responsible for Sherlock's death, deep in his mind, and the man knew it all too well. Maybe it was out of respect for his late brother, John didn't care.

Right now, he cared about the look of confusion on Mycroft's face.

"John," he began after some hesitation, "You appear to misunderstand. It was not me who called the ambulance. In fact I only came to discover your injury within the previous few hours; my surveillance was somewhat _intervened _last night."

Well. That was an unexpected outcome.

Who had called the ambulance, then?

"I presume whoever interrupted James will have called the ambulance." Mycroft suggested lightly, reading the dumb-struck expression on John's face quite clearly.

"Interrupted? Mycroft, there was no-one else." Replied John swiftly, narrowing and hardening his eyes.

A gentle sigh left Mycroft and it was clear he was tiring of this conversation; he tired quickly of anything he could not explain. "Somebody else called an ambulance for you John, and it was not James Moriarty."

Someone else?

There was no-one else.

Later that day, John called Harry to let her know he was in hospital. He, of course, didn't tell her the truth and twisted some tale about falling and puncturing his chest on some inconveniently-placed object. She was too hung-over to care and when John asked about staying with her for a while, she replied with only a slurred, "_Sure_." and informed him he could come over whenever he was out of hospital.

She did not offer to visit.

Within that first day, time quickly became John's enemy.

He found himself thinking in aid to cure his boredom and his thoughts had long ago stopped ever being pleasant. They always turned to Sherlock, the way things used to be, before _this_.

At one point, he tried to sleep but as he rolled over, distinctly heard something almost _crackle_. Like paper being crumpled, sort of.

For a few moments, he pondered the reasoning and in result slid his hand under is pillow. He retrieved an envelope. It was a pale, brown sort of colour, with his name scrawled almost elegantly in black ink. On the opposing side, there was a red wax seal and instantly John knew who it was from; who else sealed letters with wax? Who else was crazy enough, besides Jim Moriarty?

He ran his finger beneath the letter's flap and peeled away the wax seal, uncaring for the crumbs that littered his sheets; he was too curious. The paper within was white, clean and – as John read it – caused him to grit his teeth. How sick.

"_Let the games commence_."

It was written in that same, careful black handwriting. The horror that those words might bring slowly settled into John for the rest of the day. He wondered if Mycroft's surveillance had seen him open it, but for the remainder of his stay in hospital, he kept it hidden and no-one came to see him.

A few days passed and eventually John coerced the doctors enough to discharge him, under the premise that John would return if he noticed anything abnormal; after all, there was nothing but resting left to the healing process, now.

John was, himself, a good doctor and knew all too well how to care for a stab wound.

Harry didn't answer when he called, leaving John to assume she was probably in bed. He'd been given another walking stick from the hospital to aid him – his leg wasn't great as of current, anyway, and with his weakened state he kind of needed it. He slowly made his way to his cab, feeling a little pathetic. He felt weak. If someone attacked him now, he'd put up a fight, but he'd be down quite quickly.

He hated that.

He also hated getting in the cab.

Sometimes, he'd try to cross the road and catch sight of someone familiar inside a cab, but the moment he moved to see if it was _him_, it left.

Sometimes, he'd be walking through the city and he'd stopped and swear he could hear the sweet sound of a single violin playing.

Sometimes, he'd just break down.

Always, he found himself thinking of excuses for his sadness. But he knew that, in simple terms, he missed Sherlock Holmes and everything that he had brought into his life – even the bad things. _All of it_.

But, his thoughts were digressing; cabs, among many things, brought back memories he wished never to resurface, for fear of the painful reminder that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Dead.

What a concrete, agonising word.

Before long, he had arrived outside of Harry's. The lights were on. He paid the cabby and as he made it to the door, he found it unlocked – lucky, because he didn't have a key.

But he couldn't help but to pause and ponder; this was London, people didn't just leave their doors unlocked. Harry wasn't even expecting him – she hadn't answered her phone.

Just a little worry seeped John's mind.

The worry was deemed viable when his phone began ringing with a withheld number. The dread pooled with such high concentration that for a moment he was sure that it was just his injuries aching.

"Listen to me, you bloody _bastard_-"

A soft chuckle interrupted him on the other end of the phone. "No, John. I think you should listen to me." Moriarty purred. Anger, absolute _disgust _slapped John quite freshly in the face, but he remained silent. "Harriet is fine in my care, don't you fret. Did you get my letter? Hand-written. I'm lovely to you, aren't I?"

The letter.

"_Let the games commence."_

Games. Oh God, no. Jim was playing games with him, now? So the attack had been for a reason? Who had intervened?

Why him? John was not even remotely smart enough to keep up with Jim; Jim had, as much as it caused great hurt to admit, beaten Sherlock. He would _destroy _John and his life. Everything he had left.

Starting with Harry.

"What do you want?" John demanded through gritted teeth, shakily leaning against the door, fearful that his reeling mind would cause his body to give way any minute now. Maybe he and Harry had not always seen eye to eye. Maybe they were each troubled. But she was, after Sherlock, his world. The thought that she might be injured because of him, even indirectly, was enough to destabilise him quite thoroughly.

There was a brief, traumatising pause, before Jim giggled again. Teasingly. "Lovely lady, your sister. Unfortunate she's bent. Don't worry, don't worry – I won't touch her. I've seen better, anyway." He commented, followed by yet another crazed laugh.

John punched the wall and almost split one of his knuckles open in anger.

"_Anyway_. I've left a couple clues around. So, this should be fun. But do hurry, I'll grow bored soon. Shall we say 12 hours? Great! I'll catch you around, Johnnyboy."

The line went dead. John didn't even bother trying to call back; what use would it do, really?

12 hours to find his sister.

Or what? What would happen during those 12 hours? Was she just sitting around with Jim? Was she even _with _Jim?

Was it a bluff?

No, even John could tell Jim didn't believe in bluffs – and that just decreased his mood further. More or less, his sister's life was in his hands. Brilliant.

As soon as he had gathered his thoughts, John searched the entire house. He searched _everywhere _for clues; at one point he even considered prying up the floorboards. Two hours passed and John found nothing in the tiny house that his sister had once occupied. Nothing but dirty washing, empty bottles and unfinished meals.

10 hours remaining.

Where else was there to search?

It was a shot in the dark, but John was willing to take it. Quite quickly, he found himself taking a cab across London. He didn't want to return, truly he didn't, not after last time but he couldn't do anything about it. It seemed viable, feasible and a very Jim-like thing to do; leave sick clues in 221B Baker Street.

As the cab pulled up, John felt that familiar, twisting sensation of dread, storing up in his stomach.

All the worrying and moving had caused his wound to begin aching and John knew he should probably rest and change his bandages, clean the area, sleep. He knew he was worsening his health considerably with his frantic rushing, but as of current, his own health was one of the furthest things on mind.

Thankfully, Mrs Hudson still hadn't changed the locks. 3 years and neither of them had _dared _to change anything. Even one or two of Sherlock's old experiments had stayed for some time. Eventually, they'd had to dispose of them, but had both been reluctant to do so – there was an unstated agreement between the two of them that, in different ways, Sherlock had touched their lives very much. And neither of them would be moving on for quite some time.

And it was that fact that quite probably attributed for the nasty contort of emotions plucking at John's insides as he dragged himself up the stairs to the old apartment. He let himself in through the lounge entrance and grey-blue briefly swept the room. Nothing, not on first glance, anyway.

However, as he began to make further entrance into the room, using his walking-stick to aid him somewhat, he noticed something peculiar.

On the mantel-piece. The knife. The multi-purpose knife, the one that belonged to Sherlock, the one he had only a few days been _stabbed _with, was pinned thoroughly back into the mantel-piece. There was a pile of letters beneath it.

Upon further inspection, John couldn't help but notice the top one; it was an article, ripped from a textbook, magazine or printed from a website, or something. Why he was suddenly so attracted to it, he didn't know.

But whoever put it there had found and cleaned Sherlock's knife first, before implanting it into the article.

There was no title. John ripped it from beneath the knife and read it carefully. It was a report, a short one, on extremely cold temperatures. It spoke about how the human body could survive relatively longer periods of time in icy-cold water – around 4 degrees centigrade – compared to a more natural water temperature because the cold meant cells didn't require the same metabolic rate so they didn't break down as fast. John had already read similar articles on the matter; biology greatly interested him, particularly the more surprising things like this.

But why was this here? Peculiar, John thought. Quite suddenly, John sensed something wasn't quite right. His hands quivered lightly and the leaflet fell the floor, ensued more noisily by his cane. He turned around, but he didn't need to see for the terror and recognition to flicker in his mind-

"_John_."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **


	3. Being Careful

**Chapter Three; Being Careful.**

Had John had his gun, he would have shot it.

It was a nice gun, really.

Good pistol. Sig Sauer P226R. It was British Army equipment designation L106A1, issued to him and many soldiers alike, serving in Afghanistan. 196 millimetres long, 9mm bullets, up to 13 rounds. It was incredibly accurate and did pretty reasonable damage, considering it was getting fairly old now.

Legally obtained, illegally kept, it usually gave John a sense of security about him. Reminded him of the war he so greatly missed.

Except, it wasn't with him right now.

What _was _with him was a walking cane, Sherlock's old knife and some strange man.

And the man before him was very strange indeed.

He was tall, around 6ft John supposed, but he wasn't so good at deducing height. The man had caramel hair, a mix between soft brown and dark blonde, cut short and around his head quite scruffily. He was skinny, with a long, tanned face and a strange sense of dress; jeans, boots and a plain black T-shirt, a look that more suited someone in their teens, not early thirties as John guessed he was.

But the oddest part was the man's expression; layered with not confusion, not quite, but disgruntlement, maybe? An almost expectant, anxious look of curiosity and intrigue.

Didn't stop John wanting to shoot him any less.

He was almost certain this man worked for Moriarty; for starters, he'd broken so soundlessly into the apartment – there were no scuffs, the door-knob was in the exact same place it always was. Had the man been here before John arrived or had he just come in? Briefly, John considered both scenarios.

If the man had only just come in, he would have only been here for a number of seconds. There was little chance he could have recognised John – unless he knew him, as John had his back turned to both doors – and not to mention John would have noticed a door opening and closing.

So, it was most likely the second scenario. He'd been here a while longer. Neither of the doors had been open or unlocked, meaning he had either come in through a window or gained a key somehow. The only living people with keys were himself and Mrs Hudson.

Yet, something unusual rang about this man. The way he called John's name, it caused the man to tighten his fists and curl up is features. He called his name in an almost taunting manner, John felt.

"Who are you?" he demanded quite calmly. He gained no further answer. He half turned, gesturing to the letters on the mantelpiece, making a discreet note to use the knife if it came to it. "Did you do this? Put the leaflet there? Trying to wind me up somehow or give me a clue? Because either way, I don't get it so you've not done a very good job!"

His anger turned to rage when the man's only response was to smile. Were he not already in quite some pain, he probably would have attacked the man. But weighing up each of the outcomes, such motions would only take up time and probably result in John needing a change of stitching.

But the smile on that man's face! His long, full lips curled into a smile. Nor was it a teasing smile; almost an approving smile.

But he said nothing.

"Do you work for him? For Jim? Is that it, you're trying to make me go mad? Well I guess then maybe you are doing a very good job!" he spat, aware that his words were beginning to slur into each other with some kind of sickened intensity. He was angry, scared; his sister's life was being played with and there was a stranger in Sherlock's flat.

A silent stranger who was just _smiling_.

"You're bleeding, John."

So he wasn't a mute.

A slight gasp escaped John. He stumbled backwards a little and almost hit himself on the mantel-piece. He looked down at himself, but he had no further injury, not until he noticed his middle knuckle on his right hand; he'd split the skin a little when punching the wall, it seemed, and all the tensing had torn it enough to bleed.

But he didn't care for that, not even a little bit. What he cared for was not even _what _the man had said or _why _he had said it – even though those were important factors.

No, what he cared for was the man's voice. Sweet, well-refined, almost detached from any emotion.

All the strength in the world could have tried to stop the words that slipped from John's lips, but nothing would have prevailed.

Because he knew this man and there was no way this man should have been stood before him right now.

No way in Hell.

"_Sherlock_?"

* * *

_Jim Moriarty_.

He was a man of many faces, names and – best of all, he considered – miracles.

Like how he had kept himself beneath Mycroft's radar so well. Of course, Mycroft had suspected his survival; it was awfully suspicious, wasn't it? For the body of someone so intellectual, so important to disappear? Of course it was. But there was nothing Mycroft could do. No-one got to Jim Moriarty, not then, not now, not ever.

He was in intensive care – of course, with private doctors that he trusted - for days. His body was utterly broken, drained from blood and life for quite some time. They'd tried many curious methods to keep him alive – and to revive him, once or twice – and Jim thanked God they had prevailed.

Honestly, he was maybe a little grateful for his life.

He was under close medical watch, in and out of consciousness for weeks afterwards.  
But he survived.

He wasn't perfect. He hadn't been exactly perfect before, but he had been humankind's next best thing. No, he wasn't perfect, but God he was close. Now he wasn't quite as good.

The bullet had exited behind his ear. It was a mix between luck and the fact that Jim had anticipated taking such actions. He had practised with such invigorating detail the anatomy of one's brain and the damage his gun would have done to his. Firstly, he had to make sure that it wasn't on the semi-automatic setting. Lovely pistol, but being shot three times in a row would have most definitely killed him.

Then, he had to remember where to shoot and thirdly, he had to simply take his chances.

But Jim Moriarty was insane, always took his chances. If there was a God, then _dammit_, that God loved to watch him play. Which was good because Jim loved to play.

They'd had to rebuild a little of his skull; the bullet had gone right through it and left shards of bone structure in his head. A couple had fragmented into his brain, but due to the bullet's direction, most had gone forwards and taken place within flesh.

His skull was reconstructed with expensive metal plating and the skin drawn across it once again. It looked a mess to start with and – though he allowed no-one to know – it sort of upset him. He'd had such a pretty, perfect head before now. But, thanks to Sherlock Holmes's unwillingness to die, he had a nasty scar at the back of his head and his hair was growing funny!

But the scarring was the easy part.

He was no longer perfect. For months afterwards, his body refused to co-operate with him. Movements that had once been simple, daily things became difficult, particularly speech. Following the scans and tests and constant monitoring during his recuperation from the initial trauma of being shot, a slightly bigger problem arose.

The bullet had left through the right side of his head, John had very well noticed, which was – in his perspective – Jim's left.

John would also know that a human brain consists of four main lobe regions and in the bottom left area in which the bullet would have passed was the Temporal Lobe, functioning in creating, managing and storing auditory and visual perception, emotional responses, memory and speech.

Of course, Jim had also known this. He'd specifically tried to make sure that the bullet he shot would miss entirely both the Temporal Lobe and the cerebellum, which sounded relatively easy when you considered the small size of the bullet in comparison. Unfortunately, the human body was a very condensed place and it was virtually impossible _not _to damage something.

Hence Jim was informed, once lucid, that the reason for his rather rugged co-ordination was mild but significant damage to his Temporal Lobe. His lack of control over his movements was easy; he simply felt out of control due to the fact he'd been in hospital for so long. It was a regular thing with head-trauma and nothing inexplicable or untreatable – with the slight exception of his speech. His speech would only return completely with mild therapy – still, nothing much to fear. No, the real trouble was that this injury had lead into further investigation and uncovered that Jim was now suffering from Lateral Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.

The doctors tried their best to comfort him, they really did.

But Jim would not listen. He was supposed to be _perfect_.

His only weakness was that he was _changeable_, not _disabled._

_It's not a weakness_, they'd tried to tell him. _It's manageable. You'll barely notice it._

The ensuing months were a havoc of trying to help Jim recuperate, come to terms with the effects of his actions – they were sympathetic only outwardly. Had Moriarty not shot himself? He had brought on this trauma himself and so would have to deal with it. He was lucky to even be alive.  
Not that anyone dared say such things out loud.

They processed many different medications on him, using trial and error to treat the seizures that he had, as with most patients. As his health began to return to him, the attacks lessoned and soon became a thing only occasionally triggered. Meant that Jim had to be careful not to trigger a seizure, however. Meant he had to make sure he was hydrated, well-rested, didn't take certain drugs, copious amounts of alcohol, didn't disturb his metabolism, catch a bad fever or infection, _anything _that could cause a _provoked seizure_.

And even after all this, he could have a seizure at any given moment, anyway. Those were just factors to take into consideration.

Worst of all, was that he felt medical science didn't know enough about his Epilepsy. It was apparent early on that they tried to medicate it, that they understood its effects and its basic causes but it was incredibly difficult for them to understand just exactly _what _caused it. Even in Jim's case, they assumed that debris or grazing from the bullet or even his own skull is what caused the damage, but it could have been anything. He could have had LTLE for quite some time, completely oblivious. His near-perfection had been tainted and now, had to be careful. Which angered him.

Jim Moriarty wasn't careful.

This wasn't his fault. Not even a little bit.

It was entirely the fault of Sherlock Holmes.

And Jim would have his revenge.

* * *

John had to be careful not to fall.

Even worse, he had to be careful not to lash out at this man in front of him.

Of course this man wasn't Sherlock; what a foolish thing to think. He merely had a similar voice to his deceased best friend.

Because Sherlock was most definitely deceased; John had _held_ him, in his _arms_, felt his_ pulse_ slip away and watched the _wispy _breaths stop coming.

Not to mention, this man looked nothing like Sherlock – for starters, he didn't possess those trademark razor-sharp cheekbones, nor those incandescent blue eyes nor same pale-hue to his skin nor the dark, curly brown locks.

This man was lanky and tall, though, like Sherlock. But he was tanned, with shorter, paler hair and brown eyes. He did hold himself in a similar manner to his former best friend; the slope in the shoulders from hours doing nothing, but the arrogant raising of the chin as though the world was below him.

This man was in no way Sherlock Holmes and yet he was so very much him.

Words failed John for some time, as did any care for the horrified expression that he felt his features curl into. Slowly, unsteadily, he lowered himself into his old armchair. It humoured him darkly, in the most hidden parts of his mind that – for the second time this week – he was sitting in this armchair in the presence of someone who should be dead.

And so, he laughed.

He did not feel joyous of Sherlock's living – if this was, in fact, Mr Holmes. He felt angry, hurt, confused, but these emotions failed to get past the barrier of utter _shock_. And so, he laughed.

What more was there to do?

This man – this _miraculous_, _enigmatic_ man – only stood, watching John with ever-observant eyes and that same, approving smile from earlier.

"That's...Uh." he began, lightly, unsure of what words he was actually trying to form, "That's a good disguise you've got, there."

Feeling the tension ease a little, John's _company _allowed his smile to grow. He drew himself closer, only by a few steps and hesitated, as though assessing John's mental state before speaking.

"_But_?" the caramel-haired man prompted.

John didn't look up as the other male knelt on the ground and offered him the fallen walking-cane; he simply took it in one hand. After a moment or two of holding it, he did mov to look at the crouching man, narrowing his eyes.

He smacked him quite harshly in the face with his cane and watched as a little piece of skin-coloured sponge fell to the floor, revealing one of Sherlock's previously well-disguised, elegant, sharp and now bleeding cheekbones. "_But_ you've still got that same, arrogant-son-of-a-bitch aura to you."

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**

**My knowledge of human anatomy, **_**especially**_** the brain and the effects of brain trauma is limited only to that of my friends and the internet. The same with Jim's condition, so if anyone at all knows of any faults in what I've written, has any questions or advice, I would **_**love**_** for your help!**


	4. Priorities

**Chapter Four; Priorities.**

"Sherlock," John began.

The young detective could tell merely from the elevation in the doctor's tone that he intended to divert the subject. Noticing the slight crease in his mildly wrinkled brow, alongside the worried evasion of his eyes, Sherlock assumed that whatever John wished to draw attention to was certainly troubling him. Which, in effect, troubled himself also. "Sherlock, we don't have time to discuss this! As intrigued as I am to find out how you survived and why you let me believe you _dead_ for three _years_, I have higher priorities as of current."

Holmes relented from trying to explain, once again.

Every time he opened his mouth, to try and comfort John, talk him through the reasoning and the viability of everything that had happened since those three years, when he faked his own death, John interrupted him. Shouted at him, cursed him, insulted and mocked him.

Sherlock had never seen him so angry.

He pursed his lips lightly and lay eyes very carefully upon John. He observed, quite quickly, the fear in John's eyes, the dilation of his pupils and the unconscious, downward quirk at the ends of his lips. Besides that, John's face was a picture of calm and control, despite the raw anger he was clearly expressing towards Sherlock.

Concluding that whatever had upset John – besides Sherlock's return, of course - was not only serious, but on-going, Sherlock decided to push away any thoughts or hopes of either repenting or explaining to his former friend and instead focus on offering help.

He had already known Moriarty had survived, not only survived but physically assaulted John - Mycroft had informed him of that much.

Over the course of the past three years, Sherlock had made sure that his brother kept John watched over, tried to keep him safe. It seemed the man had proved himself incompetent.

So, what had Jim to gain from this? And further, what had he done to unsettle John to such an extent? To mind, Sherlock could only remember seeing John's solid-steel nerves unravel as such twice before; when they had first encountered Moriarty, and John had been wrapped in a coat of Semtex. Sherlock remembered all too vividly the concealed panic in John's grey-blue eyes at the thought of blowing up, ensued by the destabilising relief when the explosive vest was removed from him.

The only time besides that was a few years ago now, shortly after his fake suicide. That was when he had watched John cry at his own grave.

That was a painful sight.

He went back to where he was staying and washed profusely afterwards, insanely certain that if he cleaned hard enough, he could wash away the _guilt_.

But it never did. The guilt stayed, it lingered and it _burnt_.

Priorities. John spoke of priorities.

Thoroughly, Sherlock considered everything he knew John held close and thought which of them Moriarty may target.

"Harriet." He breathed as the realisation hit him, "Moriarty has done something to Harriet but you don't know what. You don't know what, a soldier's biggest fear, not _knowing_. But why? Why is he targeting you? It doesn't add up, it just doesn't. He's had his fun with us, he finished the story!"

Sherlock was pacing the room, now, tapping a long, slender finger against his lips in thought. He was barely aware of John's icy gaze, following him with such a peculiar, controlled anger that his features hardly read anything abnormal.

This anger, however, melted into something entirely different – Confusion? Amazement? – as John realised that Sherlock had, very quickly deduced the situation at hand.

And it occurred to him, no matter how angry he was, he needed Sherlock for this.

"He's taken her somewhere, Sherlock." John replied. There was an almost pleading tone beneath his rigid words, and Sherlock could see his friend was walking the fine line between calm and panic. "He said twelve hours. That was-" The doctor paused, checking his watch. "That was nearly three hours ago, now."

Twelve hours? Moriarty had allocated 12 hours for John to find his sister. How sick. But why? It didn't add up, at all. For starters, how had Moriarty survived? Sherlock remembered so perfectly, watching as the bullet impeded his skull.

Why had he returned? And why was he picking at John, now?

All questions that he was fully determined to answer.

* * *

John was not entirely certain how to react.

How does one react when a stranger turns out to be your best friend?

Your _dead_ best friend?

Instantly, there was anger. In his mind, he had hoped for a moment like this. The first year after Sherlock's death, he had dreamed of the man's return with every fibre of his being. His dreams had been filled with wondrous ideas that his death had not been a death, rather an illusion. A trick, a miracle. Something they would marvel at in later life.

But as the end of that first year drew to a close, those dreams faded once more into pitiful nightmares, his hope alongside.

To have withstood all that mental trauma, to have to adjust to the new, seemingly empty world around him had been one of the mist difficult experiences in his life. To have lived through that experience, only to learn his dead hopes had been true all along? That he'd abandoned his happiness and accepted grief for no reason?

That was like another knife to the chest, for sure.

But, as he watched those vivid, green eyes alight with intrigue, and listened to his absent-minded humming and mumbling, John slowly felt a relief. An agonising, crippling sense of joy that rendered him with two options; squeal and jump and _hug, _because Sherlock was here, alive and healthy; or ignore it. He chose the latter, deciding that when Harry was, too, safe and healthy, then he could afford those tears of joy he so badly wished to shed.

By the time they arrived at Harriet's home, the bleeding on Sherlock's cheek had majorly stopped. Checking his watch, they had about barely short of nine hours.

A nostalgic shiver ran down a John's spine as Sherlock almost bounced out of the cab and made his way to Harry's door - which was still unlocked. The detective knelt beside it and examined the brass doorknob for no more than a second or two, before turning to John. "You've concealed whoever opened this door prior to yourself with your own fingerprints, John." he informed in what he deemed as a gentle tone. However, the look of hurt and anger that quickly passed John's ice-blue eyes told Sherlock not to scold him further.

They had been searching the house for only five minutes or so before Sherlock came rushing over to John with a curious face. "Does Harry sew, John?" he questioned. Utter confusion slipped the doctor's face, before he lightly bit his tongue, shook his head and shrugged.

"I don't know. I don't think so, doesn't seem like the sort of thing she would do." replied John, carefully reviewing the idea of his sister sewing in his mind. Noticing Sherlock's sudden exit of the room, he followed, clinging quite tightly to his cane. He found Sherlock in Harry's bedroom, knelt on the floor besides the dresser. Just as he had with Moriarty touching Sherlock's things, the ex-soldier felt a slight, protective anger as Sherlock pawed at his sister's belongings in rubber gloves.

"Uh, why did you need to know if Harriet sewed?" he couldn't help but to ask. A slight appearance of delight hit Sherlock's lips and echoed in his eyes, though he dismissed it quickly, for which John was grateful. It was one thing for Sherlock to get excited over cases if people they didn't know, but when the victim was his own sister? More than a bit not-good.

Nonetheless, Sherlock was obviously intrigued in his discovery. "A needle, John. I found a needle. Don't worry, a sewing needle, perfectly safe. I think so, at least, best get it sent off to the lab-"

A heavy, awkward silence bombarded the space between them.

It took John a moment to realise, but when he did, his head dropped and he looked at his feet.

So, Sherlock missed it, too? Missed the days when St. Bartholomew's was open to them whenever they needed, for whatever; a body, an experiment, an analysis, anything they needed.

Of course, those days were long gone and, yet, it appeared even the ever-intellectual mind of Sherlock Holmes couldn't help but to get lost in the moment.

Barely a second or two passed before Sherlock amended his mistake, but it felt so much longer. Holmes cleared his throat, pursed his lips and looked away. John looked up as he did, watching the man pack away the needle into a transparent bag and slip it into the pocket of his jeans.

It was odd, John realised, how Sherlock did not look like Sherlock and yet he looked like no-one else. Maybe it was just him, maybe it was the bond they held, but Sherlock's disguise just went straight over John's head every time he looked at him; he saw Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, nothing less.

His best friend that he still hadn't forgiven, however.

After quite some time, it appeared they had found nothing further than a needle that had no business anywhere. Personally, John believed it meant nothing, but over time, he had learned to trust the judgement of Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time, anyway.

"They've been thorough, John. " Sherlock complained with a pinched, pensive expression. He was considering every possibility that came to mind - but that wasn't many. "Are you sure there's nothing else? No other clues, anything?"

At the time of the question, John had been leant against a wall, holding his walking stick with white-knuckled hands. His chest ached and laboured from a day of heavy breathing, straining his chest wound. The dark bruises and cuts on his face had mainly gone, but the lethargic, achy feeling from the hospital still echoed through his body.

Moving away from the walk and raising his chin slightly, John considered his answer. The past few days had been a blur of pain, confusion and morphine. "There was a note. Under my pillow, got there somehow without anyone noticing. " he replied slowly, remembering the sound of it creasing beneath the weight of his head, remembering the feel of his course fingers over the elegant, blank ink. "It read '_Let the games commence'._ I woke up in hospital, after this and it was there_. "_

The expression on Sherlock's face told him clearly that he should probably have mentioned this earlier. But John was a soldier, which had dug in the nasty habit of disregarding things that upset him. However, instead of ranting and complaining, Sherlock only exhaled heavily and turned away, evidently thinking.

Would Moriarty be so obvious?

Well, if this was something he intended for John to solve, then he would underestimate the doctor's intelligence - everyone did it. But, the needle? If the needle was a clue, it was a difficult one.

Was this a case intended for solely John, he wondered? A test of intellect, or worth? Or simply a game?

A game.

_Let the games commence_.

Racing his mind through various possibilities, Sherlock quickly came to the assumption that the note must be a clue. It wasn't obvious that it was a clue - Moriarty loved to tease, of course - , but what it was referring to _was_ obvious.

_Let the games commence_; Sherlock remembered the irksome phrases uttered relentlessly through London for an entire year.

The Olympic games. But where to go from there?

Moriarty had kidnapped a woman. His only clues were a needle (possibly) and a reference to the Olympic games.

The first game of the Olympics was a women's game, women's football in fact.

It was a poor lead, but it was worth a try.

"Who are you texting? Sherlock?" John asked, entirely oblivious to the thought process that Sherlock had executed in the past few seconds.

Brown contact-covered eyes locked firmly onto John for a moment, considering a response. "I'll be back shortly." He eventually exclaimed, turning on his heel before John had time to question.

In fact, John had barely reached the hall way, barely seen the door closing behind Sherlock when his phone rang.

Withheld number.

"Guess who? Oh, you don't need to guess, do you?" spoke the other end almost instantly as the call was accepted.

John quite literally had to stable himself, forcing himself to physically calm down.

But it didn't work.

Just the sound of this bastard's voice – the man who had his _sister_ – was driving him insane. He hadn't felt this – this _urge _to just _hurt _somebody in such a long, long time.

"Where is she?" he spat rather quickly, resting himself against the arm of the sofa, pursing his lips tightly as he awaited a response.

James chuckled on the other end, "That would be telling, wouldn't it? That wouldn't make me a very good villain at all. No, no. You have to find her, John. _You _have to."

A slight hesitation from John only left Moriarty with further amusement; he loved it, to be powerful. To have people metaphorically – but occasionally, physically - writhe beneath him. To be the one that was respected and feared and _perfect_.

No, not perfect.

Not that word, not any more.

But, John's words were far from Moriarty's love for power.

He was considering something; Sherlock had left. What if Sherlock found Harry and he didn't? What would happen then? Was this another clue; a warning, maybe?

"Is she all right?" Watson found himself asking, disregarding any thoughts on his friend in favour of his sister. "If you've laid a finger on her-"

"_Relaaaaax_." James chimed lightly, "She's fine. For now."

John wished he could find comfort in those words, but he couldn't He couldn't take comfort in anything that Moriarty said, simply because it came from the lips of a liar and a genius. And those two created a near-unstoppable force, one that certainly terrified John – more than he would ever admit, even to himself.

The line, quite suddenly, went dead and John found himself holding a soundless phone to his ear. Whether Moriarty had bored from the conversation or not was beyond him; beyond his cares, too. Now, he had to find Sherlock. Because, if Sherlock found Harry, who knew what would happen?

* * *

Sherlock had almost been there when John called.

Lucky timing, that was for sure. He stopped the cab and climbed out, feeling that same, old sense of nostalgia he did earlier.

He remembered, ever so fondly, the first case he and John had worked on together, the case with the cabby. What had John called it? 'A Study in Pink', or something to that effect.

Sherlock had never understood the public's fascination with John's blog. But then, he had never really understood the public.

Ordinary people.

John arrived after maybe ten minutes or so, having had to get a cab due to his leg and chest. Again, Sherlock felt anger towards his brother for letting his surveillance be so heavily interrupted.

"I don't understand, Sherlock, where are we going?" questioned his doctor friend, leaning over that damned cane of his for support.

Sherlock hated it: the way John's back arched painfully rather than his usual, upright position; the way his limp had slowly been developing back. Not to mention the inevitably horrible stab-wound that he was yet to see. It was, in effect, a shadow of John's former self. Proof that Sherlock's actions had had consequences, and those consequences had been dear.

But, no dearer than had he not done what he did.

"Feltham Arena." Sherlock replied quickly as began to walk. A slightly confused expression hit John as he followed with much less grace than usual.

"The derelict football stadium?" John confirmed, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. "Why, I don't understand?"

With a soft sigh, Sherlock decided he may as well explain, "_Let the games commence_. Olympic games, 2012, everybody was saying that. The first game of the Olympics? Women's football. But Jim loves to play games and play the stereotypical villain. Where do stereotypical villains take their kidnapped victims? Abandoned buildings and warehouses. So we need an abandoned football stadium that has had people enter it in the last few hours. Nearest thing that fits out bill in Feltham."

A few seconds passed and eventually, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned around, simply to check John was following.

But he wasn't.

John was stood a couple paces back, rubbing his face soft with one hand.

"John?" Sherlock called, almost tentatively, watching his friend with a peculiar expression.

The explanation, the familiar flow of Sherlock's words as he explained a brilliant epiphany, it was too much for John.

Too many memories, memories of good times, in their first cases, when every discovery and deduction fascinated him.

Before James Moriarty, before the fall, before anything _not good_.

" I'm fine." He insisted eventually, sniffing gently. He hoped Sherlock had not seen the tear, but he doubted his luck would prevail; nothing escaped Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm fine. That was just amazing."

* * *

**Thank you for reading!**


	5. Needles

**Chapter Five; Needles.**

Feltham Arena was a particularly disgusting section of London.

There were plenty of those, weren't there?

Nonetheless, John could smell the piss, the rats and the general stench of neglect.

It was built, primarily, out of stone, slated with graffiti and peculiar stains. The paint peeled away everywhere he looked and the ground had been overgrown by weeds and coated in litter.

It was _disgusting_.

What was even more disgusting was that, if Sherlock was right, somewhere amongst this filthy, disease-ridden germ-sanctuary was his sister.

Worse than that was that, he didn't know what state she was in.

They waded through rubbish and debris. At one point John slipped and almost reached out to grab Sherlock, but recoiled. Which was strange; he had expected that, once the anger passed, he would want to grab hold of Sherlock and never, ever let go. But he didn't. In fact, the mere thought of touching his old friend filled him with something odd – something twisting and foreign. It was not anger, nor guilt, rather that if he were to give in to Sherlock, to let Sherlock get away with what he had done – which was abandoning John, leaving him when he most needed him – would cause whatever, little self-respect he had to deplete.

It would be a long time, John decided, before he could forgive Sherlock Holmes.

A very long time, indeed.

Sherlock of course, was oblivious to John's inner-turmoil, trying to pick up clues amongst the rubbish. In his mind, this was one, small consolation. If he could find Harry, find John's sister safe and sound for him, maybe it would count towards redemption? It was not a concept he particularly understood – nor did he understand John – but, God dammit, it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try, any shot in the dark, any _chance_ to have things as they were.

To have John back.

The homeless-network was the only reason he had found this place. He'd texted one of his most trusted 'hobos' and they'd said that a car had shown up here some hours ago.

But, there were no tire-tracks in the weeds, not that Sherlock could see, which meant somehow they brought Harriet here on foot. So, he was looking for footsteps, or at least only small irregularities in the grass.

Which, he soon found.

John almost tripped over him as the detective stopped suddenly and knelt. His fingers lightly traced the air above a small, trampled gathering of Dandelion leaves, soft eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"_This way_, John."

Without further explanation from Sherlock – nor questioning from John -, the pair of them made movement towards another crumpling part of the stadium.

Though he was not particularly good at determining emotions, at deducing people's feelings and wants, Sherlock could tell just from the look in John's eyes how keen the man was to find his sister.

For a second, Sherlock contemplated it; what it was like, to have such a close connection to a sibling. To have that clear, instinctive, almost reckless sense of protection over someone. Sure, Sherlock had Mycroft. But he didn't have that sort of bond with him – the bond he held between himself and his brother was a peculiar one, to say the least. Sherlock also had John – he felt protective over John, of course. But it was different. It wasn't that raw, obligatory attachment that he had seen between so many blood-relatives.

Barely a second passed whilst Sherlock thought about brotherly emotions, before he started running, determined to help John find his sister as soon as they could.

He followed the small, discreet trail of trodden weeds, leading into a small section of the indoor area. The roof had fallen through, leaving the ground victim to bird droppings and rain. The walls had also begun to fall apart, some just a collection of framework, boards and broken windows. The room was rather narrow, more of a corridor, with a large sheet of corrugated, metal board strewn against a wall. Everything was graffiti-covered, dirty and dead.

In the time that Sherlock took to scope the filthy area, John had found his way to the over side of a large, metal board. Sherlock, however, only drew his eyes to the elder man upon hearing the horrified, strangled gasp that left his lips.

John was knelt on the ground, his trousers already rather carelessly coated in dust and debris from the ground. In his arms, was a mass of orange hair – and a pale, pasty face.

"_Harry_!" John managed to choke.

The scene before him was somewhat surreal to Sherlock; he had, of course, seen people like this before. Seen people disgusted and concerned, seen them break down and crumple at the hands of heavy emotion and tightly-wound bonds. But, John was a man of strength. John, no matter what, always held himself calm, ordered. He had _nerves _of _steel_.

And yet, here the man was, on the verge of screaming – or crying -, his arms trembling ever so slightly as he held this pale young woman.

Sherlock moved ever so slightly towards the pair of them, crouching and staring with those analytical eyes of his. He watched intently, though respected the idea that John was pained right now and kept out of reach. He felt ever so slightly like an intruder, an on-looker who shouldn't be there.

Harry's skin was pale, but not the pretty, porcelain kind such as Molly's, rather a pasty, saturated hue, one that rang alarm bells. Her hair was splayed messily around her face, ginger on the whole, though some darker, greying roots had begun to make their way through the dye. Her eyes were only partially open, enough to see the slight whites of her eyes. Thankfully, she was breathing.

It was shallow, ever so shallow. But there.

"She's been poisoned."

The assumption, the sudden _decision _in his voice was so certain; not even a shred of doubt. Sherlock narrowed his contact-covered eyes as they came to meet John's.

"How?" he asked, wondering with quite thick curiosity how John had so quickly worked it out – and then _remembering_. He remembered something in that moment that he had missed whilst away from John; he had missed the man's surprising skill. He was intelligent, not that Sherlock would ever admit it to John. He was a skilled doctor and he did, repeatedly, surprise the consulting-detective with his knowledge.

John turned away and shrugged ever so lightly. His shoulders were shaking somewhat and his face was a mix of controlled emotions; it was a foul, hurtful sight to see. Sherlock's eyes lingered, watching John's Adam's apple roll against the skin of his throat as he swallowed, paying detail to the extra wrinkles that had appeared during his absence and _remembering_.

He remembered how John used to be. He saw how John was now. The changes were slight, they were small changes to the average eye, but Sherlock saw it; he had truly hurt John by leaving.

Whilst his mind cast thoughts of self-doubt, self-loathing and _guilt_, his eyes were busy doing the work for him.

Quite quickly, Sherlock noticed something; a small, almost prick in Harriet's index finger.

Was it a clue? It had to be. The only clue that they had found in Harriet's house had been a _needle_.

But a sewing needle?

Had she been _poisoned _by a _sewing needle_? Was that actually possible, how did it work?

Slowly, uncertainly, John's head turned to look at Sherlock. His expression was weary, the expression of a man running close to his limit and yet he still took the time to stare for a few seconds before questioning his friend's expression.

"What is it? You've thought of something, I know you have." The doctor stated. Sherlock looked up to him, unnaturally brown eyes revealing no answers. He pursed his lips – the only obvious feature that had remained – and nodded.

A slightly tanned armed reached out past John and pointed to the ginger's hand, "Look, John," Sherlock ordered gently, whilst John did as was asked of him, "Look at her finger, can't you see it? A pin-prick? What did we find in her house? A needle."

"It's like that fairy tale, isn't it? One they tell to kids." John commented quietly, lips pressed tightly together and played in a tortured, downward angle. Sherlock threw him a confused expression and so John developed on the idea; "Sleeping Beauty. Evil Witch promises to punish the King and Queen and several years later, sends their daughter into a century-long sleep by pricking her finger."

Such a sudden, solid idea was – to Sherlock – like a slap in the face.

No, no, no. Not another fairy tale, not _more. _

And yet, he couldn't help but to realise something that perplexed him further; how had John, so quickly, come up with the idea of a fairy tale? John knew that Moriarty liked games, but to his knowledge John knew nothing of the fairy tale aspects to his plot.

But then, was it not John who received each of the fairy tale clues? The dirt, the ginger-bread man? Sherlock had only assumed that John had not thought anything of them, that John hadn't understood the entwining relationship between the game and the fairy tale. Sherlock had only assumed John was not half as smart as he truly was.

His eyes flew wide open and he pushed forwards, causing a curious look from John as he did. He took hold of Harriet's arm and pulled away her shirt sleeve.

Another, choked gasp left John's lips at the sight; all along her arm were a series of pinpricks. Some of them were closer together than others, with tiny speckles of crimson blood congregating around them. There were many, uneven and un-patterned, but deep and plentiful.

Sherlock moved to touch, examine some of the pinpricks, but a sudden, almost animalistic groan of protest escaped Harry – and so John smacked Sherlock's hand away. Sherlock held back the hurt in his expression and maintained a straight, uninterested face as John pulled his sister closer and ran his finger through her mouth, checking for vomit; he didn't want her to choke, of course. As he did, she spittled some of the foul stuff and John turned her over so she could throw up safely.

Though he had first deemed her 'pasty', Sherlock could see now that there was a faint, yellowing tinge beginning to make presence beneath the white sweat-sheen. John had clearly noticed it, too.

"Harry, can you hear me?" he questioned his sister anxiously once she had finished vomiting, pulling her face towards his own. She nodded after the third time he asked, her head lulling ever so slightly. "Are you hurt anywhere? Do you have abdominal pains, Harry? Please, it's important!"

There was an almost pleading tone to John's voice again, one that Harry barely seemed to care for. She snarled for a moment, writhing in the arms of her brother as though his questions were _annoying _and _stupid_. She spat something relatively inaudible then nodded, clutching her lower stomach to emphasize.

And at that, panic ran through John's eyes.

Panic, then calm. That same, pressured calm that Sherlock had seen so many times; he watched as the panic and fear was suppressed, gathered into a small, segregated area and left alone for later.

Now, the doctor and the soldier in John had replaced the average man.

"It's lead poising." John determined, though he sounded as though he wanted to add the words 'I think' to the end; he was only assuming. "Vomiting, she's aggressive, or more so than usual, got stomach pains and she has the beginning signs of jaundice. It's lead poisoning and it's fairly bad."

Despite the transformation Sherlock had just witnessed, John still couldn't help but to choke on his last few words. He paused, bit his lips together and clicked his tongue and – quite suddenly – his composure was gained.

"Ooh, he's quite the _smart_ _one _now, isn't he?"

Two heads shot up, two pairs of eyes widened and one voice hummed in amusement.

"I did miss you, _Sherlock_. Our game. It was good, wasn't it? Except we never finished it, not truly. We just got hurt." Continued the voice in the shadows. Even through Sherlock's disguise, the horror and the fear did not find a natural-looking home on his face. He looked terrified, almost, panicked and it did not suit him. "I see you got a make-over, hm. Doesn't suit you, sorry. I'm not buying the hairstyle. Or the tan."

There was a slight cracking sound that took Sherlock a few minutes to source; John's fists and clenched and his knuckles had tightened, clicking as they released gas. Aside that, Sherlock could see John's teeth grinding and his face twisting. There was anger, _fury _in John that struck just a little fear into Sherlock's heart – a fear that would never truly leave.

It was that same protective, angry bond that he had not so long ago been contemplating. The brotherly nature of John had replaced the average man, the doctor and the soldier.

John's internal battle _not _to attempt homicide was entirely evident.

"Kept you off of my trail though, didn't it?" Sherlock replied, almost quietly. A sudden, high-pitched '_Ha._' came from Moriarty, who Sherlock had now sourced to be just around the corner of the corridor, standing in the outskirts of the debris and shadows. Before James could put up a counter-argument, Sherlock continued. "You set this _game _for John, or so you say. But you made it hard, too hard. Much harder than you think John capable of understanding. You made this for me, an easy challenge but one hard to deny because you wanted to draw me back into another round of your game."

Another, satisfied hum. "Good. Yes. That's right. Doesn't help you any, does it? Your disguise obviously didn't work if you know I did all this for _you_, hey?" Moriarty mused.

Sherlock grunted and turned further to try catching side of the bodiless voice. "Yes, of course. However, this wasn't your first move, was it? First was to injure John and to _warn _him. You set this up quite well, making it possible for John to do, just in case. Because, my disguise worked, didn't it? You didn't know, not for certain, whether I was truly dead or not. This was not a test for John, it was a test for me."

Something not dis-similar to disappointment flickered into his eyes; this hadn't been about him. All those years of suffering, waiting for a miracle and when it came, he wasn't happy. Sherlock and James had just come back, without reasoning – not yet, anyway – and, once again, John felt like a background character.

A pawn to help people get what they actually wanted. Insignificant.

"It was more than a test, Sherlock," Moriarty continued. His tone deescalated, succumbing to a lower, darker manner. His footsteps were silent and, quite suddenly, he was lingering at the opposing end of the decaying corridor, hands into the pockets of yet another pricey suit. "It was a warning. Another chapter. You might _think _you're the good guy, that you'll win, but not all fairy tales end like that. Every fairy tale needs a good, old-fashioned villain. But not every fairy tale in itself needs to be good and old-fashioned. Remember that."

As his words left, an eerie silence followed in a successing swoop. The room became so hushed that the small noises of John's inner-anger were completely audible; so much so that a grin rose on Moriarty's features.

John noticed the grin. Less than a second had passed before Harriet had been laid on the ground once more, and John had risen to his feet. Less than half a second had passed before Sherlock ensued, grabbing a hold of John's shoulder and firmly pulling him backwards.

With their faces in such proximity, Sherlock easily noticed the extra stress-lines, the deeper hollows and the tighter expressions in John's face. Whilst, John noticed the peculiar shape to Sherlock's face with his cheekbones covered, how odd he looked with darker skin, brown eyes and blonde-ish hair. And yet, they each caught eyes; years apart and there was still that _bond_. The bond between two men fighting relentlessly the same war, yet unsure of what that very war was; boredom, maybe? The bond that was, in a strange way, brotherly, beyond best friends and yet so obscure.

The bond that, even now when it lay severed and bleeding, caused the tension to disappear and instead be replaced by understanding.

There was no exchange of words, and John slowly, silently moved back to his sister.

"I'll be seeing you next chapter, Sherlock. Johnny-boy." Murmured Jim, slowly slicing through the silence in an eerie manner. He disappeared once more into the crumbling structure of the old stadium. The following silence was broken quite quickly by John, who had finally made the calm move of calling an ambulance for his sister.

"Next chapter?" Sherlock repeated to himself, closing his eyes and lifting his chin, facing the sky with a weary expression, "I never did like riddles."

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**

**I have never actually stepped foot in London, or anywhere particularly near to London. So, admittedly, all the description is based off of research. So again, any improvements are more than welcome! Thanks again!**


	6. John Doe

**Chapter Six; John Doe.**

"I want an explanation, you know. Tell me, Mr _Doe_."

For a doctor, John seemed awfully out of place in a hospital.

As stony-faced, dead-eyed doctors ran and rushed through crisp, white corridors, John lingered slowly, his eyes alive with vivid emotion. Amongst the movements of those with purpose, with character and with importance, John Watson appeared as a ghost.

"Don't say it like that, John. You make it sound so fake." Sherlock retorted with a light smile, though John did not reciprocate the humour. Sherlock doubted that John even got the joke; the name _John Doe _was used in the U.S. and Canada primarily – though it originated in the U.K – for a person or sometimes corpse who had no identity. Nowadays, the name was obsolete within Britain and instead _Joe Bloggs _was used, but John Doe had a much more British feel to it. He'd considered briefly the name _John Smith_, but that really was far too obvious. Arguably, _John Doe _was still a foolishly obvious name, but most people had not recognised it, or laughed it off as a coincidence.

Nonetheless, Sherlock's thoughts bubbled slowly to a halt in front of John's stern glare. He swallowed, feeling that maybe now was not an appropriate time for small-talk. They were, after all, waiting to see how badly John's sister had been hurt by the lead poisoning.

"Sorry." Sherlock uttered quietly, settling back into his seat in the corridor. John winced at the apology and Sherlock was unsure as to why, but didn't press. He sat silently for a few minutes, then rose, gesturing with his head to John, "Follow me."

Curiosity joined the party of emotions playing on John's features for a moment or two, but fled as John shook his head, "No. No, I'm waiting for Harry."

It struck Sherlock once again, how truly _loyal _John was. To everyone. He remembered quite well how John had told him that he and his sister didn't get on, how they never had. In that moment, Sherlock had thought that maybe that was something they had in common; he didn't particularly get on with Mycroft, either. But, John would not as much as venture away from this corridor. Sherlock wanted to tell John that it didn't matter; if she died or if she lived, his location wouldn't affect it.

But he felt maybe that was a little bit not-good.

"_John_. She'll live, I promise." He insisted gently, dancing around what he wanted to say and taking a slightly uncertain grip on John's wrist, focussing both eyes onto his old friend, "She's in good hands, you aren't helping anyone by pacing the corridors and working yourself up."

Despite his attempts at being kind John still looked a little offended for a second or two, tearing his hand away. But, the anger melted and he sighed, pulling his shoulders back and accepting that maybe Sherlock was right; not that he'd say so.

* * *

It was quite surreal, really.

For the both of them. Being here. On the roof of St. Bart's.

Surreal for Sherlock, because this was where he was in his final moments, before Sherlock Holmes died and John Doe was born. This was where Jim Moriarty died and where Rich Brook 's existence was made almost undeniable.

For John, this was the place where he forgot how to be happy. This was where his best friend died. Or rather, the ground below it was, he supposed.

"So, go on, tell me. How did you do? Was that whole thing about cell metabolism in ice a clue? Did you use some ridiculous miracle drugs to slow your pulse because I _felt _it Sherlock. I felt your pulse go, I felt you _die _in my arms, I-" began the doctor in a nasty, gravelly tone. He, however, relented as his words seemed to catch in his throat. He choked on them silently and turned away from Sherlock, pacing towards the edge of the hospital roof and staring out across the city of London. "I want an explanation. Tell me, Sherlock."

In response, the detective swallowed lightly. He felt a little nauseous up here, with so many memories hammering out of the shadows of his mind and racing before his eyes, reminding him so vividly of that morning. He inhaled thickly through his nose and drew his hands together behind his back, a pose that looked strangely out of character without the famous brown locks and fitted suit. "It's a lot simpler than you're expecting, John." He admitted, pacing slightly towards John, "Intricate, albeit, but nothing as difficult as drugs. Just people being where they need to, when they need to. Timing and misconception. A magic trick, if you will."

Those words stung John; _magic trick_. He could remember that day as well as any other, the day Sherlock 'died'. He remembered Sherlock referring to his deduction skills as only a party trick, a _magic trick_. He'd never believed it. He'd never believed Sherlock had _chosen_ suicide, nor lied to anyone. Moriarty had always been in his mind, always been the one he blamed most for Sherlock's death – he just didn't know how. Or why. Why did Moriarty do anything? Why did anyone do anything? Not just for boredom, though boredom was a constant motivator. There were more vicious motivators one could feel. Hate. Love. There were so many. Boredom could never be a sole motivator for such detailed plans and plots, or so John refused to believe it, anyhow.

John remembered, too, there were times when he thought maybe Sherlock _wasn't _dead. Little things and thoughts and feelings that occurred, that made him believe maybe that, too, was a magic trick. But time passed and, as often was the case, became his enemy. His own thoughts became his enemy. His mind became corrupt with hate, with guilt, with doubt. The days, the weeks, months and finally years passed to no prevail. No return for Sherlock and, in reciprocation, no hope from John.

Sherlock had been dead in John's mind for a very, very long time. The man he stood with now was not a friend. The man before him was John Doe; fictitious, identity-less and empty.

John's cold thoughts seemed to emanate through his body language and expression, causing a slight physical retreat from Sherlock, furthering the space between them.

The silence remained for what seemed a very long time, before Sherlock continued, "The leaflet about cells in ice was just to remind you of what you already knew John. That there are exceptions to everything, that though it may seem mundane a lot of the time, there are always exciting little tricks in life."

"Exciting?" John bellowed quite suddenly, his face a picture of distorted rage as he turned around, "_Exciting? _You think this has been _exciting _for _me_, Sherlock?"

As John progressed aggressively towards him, Sherlock felt the need to step backwards a little, eye-ing the ex-soldier's tense fists a little anxiously; he knew how incredibly strong John could be. "No, of course I didn't. I suppose exciting was the wrong word."

John growled, though he was standing still now, "Suppose? Bloody right it was!" he spat.

A little more silence passed and John turned away, folding his arms protectively across his chest and watching London once more, "None of this has been _exciting _for me." He continued in a thick tone, though the anger had subsided slightly. Sherlock tried to interject, but John continued, "None of this has been easy, fun, anything like that. It's been hard. It's been God-damned awful. I thought you were dead. I still think you are. You're not Sherlock Holmes, he's dead. You're John Doe. You're John Doe, and I don't know a John Doe. John Doe isn't my flat-mate, isn't someone I talk to and definitely, one-hundred per cent, isn't my best friend."

Words had always been, to Sherlock, simply a medium to express one's thoughts. He didn't particularly have 'favourite' or 'least favourite' words, nor did he ever really stop to think about the depth of their meanings. But, as this short, pained speech ran from John's lips, words suddenly became the heaviest, most meaningful things he had ever come into contact with. The insults, the actual understanding of what John was saying to him fell onto his shoulders and burdened him with its agonising weight. John considered him dead. He was dead to John. He was a stranger, someone new, someone he didn't care for. That, in Sherlock's opinion, was worse than if John were to hate him. If John hated him, it meant they still had a relationship, they still knew each other. It would have meant Sherlock had something to work for, a hole to dig himself out of. But to be considered dead? For John to say, actually _say_, he didn't know him? Well, that gave him nothing. There was nothing. He was nothing. Nothing to work with, from or two. He was just a stranger. Ironically, he was just another John Doe in a sea of meaningless identities.

For once, Sherlock was uncertain. He had no words to describe this feeling, nor any words to express to John. He had as much as he was, and he was nothing.

"Talk me through it, then." John pressed, coldly, breaking through the eerie silence. "These people and this plan that apparently wasn't very intricate. Tell me how it worked. You had no pulse, how did that work?"

For a while, Sherlock remained silent. He had turned his back to John, drawn his hand together and pressed them to his face as though in a poor attempt to remain calm. Words were words. John was angry. But John was loyal. John didn't mean it, did it? It was so strange, so odd this concept that he actually cared for John. Did good ever come from caring? If he didn't care, he would still be Sherlock Holmes. No fake suicide, no new identity. He wouldn't be feeling this either, this horrid, stinging sensation that wasn't even a genuine pain. It was something deep and internal and it repelled him.

"I did have a pulse; you can't be alive and not have a pulse. You should know that, John." He managed to state, removing his hands from over his face and exhaling tiredly. He was tired, tired of humanity. Of caring. It was all so odd and foreign to him, yet he knew it all so well. "The pulse on my neck was already being taken by someone, remember? Do you remember also, John, the bouncy ball I was playing with in the hospital? I doubt you do, it seemed insignificant. Well, placing that beneath your armpit of in the crook of your elbow can stop the pulse found through your wrist, if the right amount of pressure is applied. It was simply the case of fastening it tightly enough. I still had a pulse in my neck, but that was being covered."

They had turned to face each other, now, intrigue scarring the anger in John's eyes. "All right, makes sense. Except, how could you guarantee I wouldn't go for your neck?" he snapped, trying to hide his interest and curiosity with an icy tone of voice.

"Most of the civilians on that street weren't civilians at all. Neither were the doctors and nurses that ran to my aid." Sherlock replied, watching the confusion and surprise dance across John's withered features, "They were hired professionals. Mycroft claims he only has a minor position in the government. I say he _is _the government."

"Mycroft?" John repeated. There was a little hurt in his voice, now; Mycroft was in on this, too? "How?"

"Professionals in the government, people who know the importance of secrecy. People who were paid a lot of money, too. Mycroft was very insistent on helping me. I asked him to watch over you, John, not for help. But he refused to let Moriarty win, some form of personal vendetta, I believe. That and I suppose that we are brothers may have helped. But, moving on, everyone who saw me land was hired by Mycroft-"

"No, no, hang on, I saw you fall, I saw you!" John interrupted adamantly, crossing the space between them a little further. He had seen him fall, he'd seen him covered in blood, he'd seen him rushed away on a stretcher.

Holding back a sigh, Sherlock grabbed hold of John's shoulders. The doctor winced, as though wishing to reject the other's touch, though held still. "Think John, really think," he insisted, staring down at the smaller, elder male, narrowing his eyes, "You saw me fall. I said land, you didn't see me land. Why didn't you see me land, do you remember? Because there was a waste-disposal truck in the way, full of bin bags. That blocked yours and the gunman's view of the landing."

"Gunman?" John repeated, searching his mind for that moment. It wasn't difficult. Although he usually managed to supress bad memories, managed to force them into a stage that only emerged in his nightmares, this one always seemed to resurface. And, it resurfaced now. He was right, there was some sort of truck – he hadn't really taken notice of what _kind_, but a truck full of bin-bags sounded feasible.

But, gunman? What gunman? Even in his panicked, nauseous state, he probably would have noticed a man with a gun.

On the other hand, Sherlock's mind was quickly considering options. John didn't know about the gunmen, did he? He didn't know why Sherlock had jumped. That, he supposed, was a small explanation towards John's hostility.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock decided to finish this explanation, first. "I'll explain that part afterwards." He decided, watching as John nodded in acceptance, evidently still curious, "I didn't land on the ground. It's possible to jump from heights into things such as a skips and survive, providing you get your positioning and landing correct. With this knowledge, I determined I'd be able to land on something that wouldn't look out of place – such as rubbish bags. From the rubbish truck. Mycroft didn't want any chance of the plan failing. He didn't want Moriarty to have even the slightest chance at winning this _game_, so they filled bin-bags with the same, standard, easily accessible materials used in crash mats for stunt artists. Foam, polyester, that kind of thing. Wrapped up in bin-bag covers, you couldn't tell the difference."

Throughout the entirety of the explanation, John's features had been fighting between confusion and wonder. Confusion, because it was so simple; how had he fallen for it? Not to mention, there were further questions left unanswered, further mysteries he didn't understand. But wonder, because despite its simplicity, it was a genius plan. It worked. It had fooled everyone.

"But there weren't any bin-bags around when I got to you. And you fell facing the ground, but ended up on your back. You must've turned right? Somehow? Landing like that, on your stomach, would probably have broken your back." Argued the doctor lightly, more out of curiosity, desperation for knowledge than anything else, "And if you didn't land head first against the pavement, where did all the blood come from?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling faint approval at John's logical questions and assumptions. Not for the first time, he noticed how John's intellect had grown since the time they had first met. "When I fell, I built up enough momentum with my arms at the sides so I could flip the moment the truck obscured your view. I slid off of the bin-bags instantly and they were thrown aside by Mycroft's workers while one of them on a bicycle hit into you to destabilise and nauseate you. The rest then crowded around me to further block your view, applying blood packets acquired from the hospital. You're a doctor and a soldier; it had to be real blood. It had to look and _smell_ the same, or you wouldn't fall for it, even in your unstable state. By this time, more people had arrived, people that weren't involved and so we had to be careful. You were held back by another woman, hired by Mycroft of course, while I was placed on a stretcher and moved away. Once out of your line of vision, just around the corner I switched places with a body from the morgue."

As Sherlock's explanation came to a finish, so did the regularity in John's breathing. Every breath was suddenly a choke and it occurred to him that he was _crying_. Why was he crying? This wasn't a sad, or a moving story. It was Sherlock's explanation as to how he cheated death; it was a trick, Sherlock showing off. Yet, to hear it explained, so simply? It hurt him, it really did.

Seeing the horror and shock in Sherlock's face, John turned away and brought a hand to his face, the other supporting himself against his walking stick. Maybe, he thought, it hurt literally because the plan was so simple. Because he'd lived so long, suffering and struggling because he thought Sherlock was dead. He'd thought once upon a time that maybe it was possible, but he had eventually sunk back into a depression. A depression, for so long, because of Sherlock's death. And now, to hear that he hadn't really died? That he had survived, easily? It hurt him, it really, really did. Years of wasted pain and why? There was no reason why, not yet.

Further questions rose to mind, further queries and confusions that he was desperate to understand. He wanted to know everything; why had Sherlock done it?; what injuries had he got, falling such a height?; no drugs, no extra techniques? But, his phone rang before he had the chance to voice any of those questions.

* * *

As it turned out, Harry would live.

She wasn't out of the woods yet, though. She was to be hooked up to an IV drip and treated via something John had explained to Sherlock named Chelation Therapy – it basically meant they'd flush her out with some chemical. It would take a while, but as of current no long-lasting side-effects had arisen from her encounter.

Sherlock had never seen John look so _relieved_. Would he look like that, if it was Mycroft in Harry's place? He genuinely wasn't sure.

"You have to let the world know," John said quietly, once Harry had drifted back into sleep. They had forked out for a private room and were now sad on opposing sides of her, John eyes not once leaving his red-headed sister. "You have to make the world believe in Sherlock Holmes. Let them know Moriarty was real and Richard Brook was a fake. You _have _too. You can't stay John Doe forever."

Ignoring the almost distasteful tone as John named his alias, Sherlock nodded. "You're right. I've anticipated as much and now Moriarty wants round two, I can't stay hidden any longer. The shadows will protect me to start with, though. I'll need to rebuild myself, let only the important people know first."

"The important people?" John repeated, looking up from Harry ever so quickly to send Sherlock a glance, "Like who?"

"First on my list is Molly Hooper."

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading!**

**Eek, I don't think my Reichenback Theory was very good, so sorry guys! Basically I had friends and the internet point out clues and came up with this rough, unpolished idea. I may go back and add more details to it in the future, but for now this is it! C: Please, please point out on holes/flaws so I can fix it. Also, I imagine there are a lot of theories very similar to this idea, so I'm sorry if you think I've copied it/stolen ideas! I haven't. Mine's not very thought-through. Sorry again. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, anyway!**


	7. War

**Chapter Seven; War.**

Fearwas not something he was accustomed to.

Fear was something cruel, something that latched onto you, on the inside and refused to let go. It was like a virus, attaching somewhere healthy and tainting it, growing while the rest of you became weak and diseased. And, like a virus, it spread. Once the fear within one person was great enough, it would leap and sink into the mind of another. It would twist and manipulate the mind, the body, cease any and every opportunity to grow.

Fear was exactly what James Moriarty was feeling now.

It had started slowly. A rare occasion, but he hadn't felt like doing anything. An exceptionally bad headache had come on and so he had gone to rest. There was never one, singular home that belonged to him; he was too busy, all over the place, always. He had several houses and hotels and various locations that he could stay at, across the globe. In London, he preferred to stay in the penthouse suite of a hotel, the owner of whom was a very close associate of his, and had been for years. He was particularly familiar with it; it never changed, no-one else ever used it. It was entirely safe, entirely his.

And so, rather comfortably – besides the horrific throbbing in his head – he had lain in his bed, eyes open and wide, simply staring into space. Slowly, it came. A peculiar, terrifying sense of unfamiliarity. A feeling that he was somewhere he had never been before, somewhere he didn't belong and didn't know why. It was almost crippling, almost had him glued to the bed. It took effort, but he managed to swing himself up into a sitting position. His mind reeled in panic, telling him he was somewhere strange, in a stranger's bed, even though he knew he wasn't. It was a frightening sensation that attempted to mask reality. The fact that he knew where he was and yet he was so sure he had never been here before horrified him; it genuinely created an unnerving contradiction in his mind. Contradiction and uncertainty were also things he was not accustomed to; despite a little insane, Jim was intelligent, intellectual. A genius, even. He didn't understand why he was here; he didn't understand why he was questioning what he already knew. Everything was so unfamiliar, so frightening.

With even less haste than it arrived, it left. He sat for what seemed like hours, back arched and face buried in his hands, trying to fight and ignore the odd sensation. As regularity came back and the fear began to diminish, he remembered one of his doctors explaining something similar to this. What had they called it? He searched his mind for less than a second, before a name surfaced; J_amais vu._ The opposite of Déjà vu - which meant _already seen _-, _Jamais vu _meant _never seen_. It was an occurrence of unfamiliarity and he was certain that was its first occurrence, at least on such a scale. It was, if he recalled correctly – which he almost always did – a result of his LTLE. A Simple Partial Seizure, an SPS.

A harsh, sudden anger ran throughout him that he was certain he _had _felt before. It was the anger of someone playing the blame-game. This, all of this; his injury, the fall of his reputation, everything was not his fault. It was the fault of the other, of his nemesis, his obsession.

It was the fault of Sherlock Holmes and his little pet, John Watson.

They'd got to him. Years, no-one had ever got to Jim Moriarty. But they had, that duo. They'd got to him, they'd drawn him out to play and he'd _lost_. He'd come out of this worse.

That made him angrier than comprehension. This was more than a game, now. This was a war. One that Moriarty would take every possible step to win.

* * *

Three years had passed and Molly Hooper had barely changed at all.

It occurred to John as they made their way to her home that he should probably have known Molly knew more about the fall than she had let on. For starters, she had never called or visited. A few people – very few – had visited John or at least called him to talk, to offer condolences. Lestrade, Stamford, even Sarah and a very brief, awkward phone call with Henry Knight. Fresh flowers, often red roses, had arrived on Sherlock's grave from time to time, but no sighting of Molly. At the time, he'd not even noticed. He was too busy with his own sorrow, far too buried in his own grief to care for how anyone else was feeling.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of things about Sherlock's fall he should have noticed but didn't.

Like the phone. Sherlock's phone was never recovered, no-one ever searched for it or even for a moment, stopped to consider where it might have been. Which was, coincidentally, exactly what Molly and Sherlock had been waging on.

There had never been a moment in his entire life that John had felt more invisible than when Molly opened that door. Her eyes moved straight to Sherlock and her jaw quite literally dropped. Sherlock, in return, gave her a slightly awkward smile.

They remained like that for some time, before Molly finally actually made a sound – in the form of a light gasp – and took a few steps backwards. "You look so different!" she eventually stuttered, earning an eye-roll from Sherlock, "I, uh, mean, not in a bad way, but… It is you, isn't it? I'm not making a fool of myself, well you know, more than usual am I-"

"Yes, Molly, it's me. Calm down." The detective replied, reinforcing his words with that same, awkwardly formed smile. John looked between the two of them for a moment, sighing. Whether Sherlock had noticed it or not, he'd always thought it was painfully obvious how much Molly actually cared for Sherlock. Her reaction, now, to Sherlock's good looks stripped away and replaced with this frankly awful new appearance was a little funnier than it should have been.

Eventually, Molly stopped hyperventilating and noticed John. She smiled warmly, glad to see John looking a little more healthy than the last time she'd seen him; briefly, she'd checked on him in St Bart's while he slept, after his stab injury. Not that she'd admit it to him, but John had been so important to Sherlock that he had become sort of important to her, too. Not to mention, one of the many things Sherlock had asked of her before the fall was that she keep an eye on John – and in the long run, she felt she'd failed. "It's good to see you again, both of you! Please, come in." she murmured, in that same, shy, awkward way she had. She stepped aside and allowed passage for both men through the doorway.

Molly's involvement, John found, was much more important than he had expected.

For starters, she'd been the one to provide a body from the mortuary; a body to replace Sherlock's, one that was rushed through the hospital and buried in his place. In a way, the idea sickened John; that man would never have an honest burial, his family would never visit his grave, they would never know what became of him. The most sensible scenario, John supposed, was that the man must have dedicated his body to medical science. Nonetheless, the idea of betraying a dead man, even someone he didn't know, upset him a little.

Secondly, she'd been the one in charge of the evidence. John drew his mind back to the matter of the missing phone, "So, you have it? His phone? Why?" the doctor asked as they sat around the table in Molly's kitchen.

Her house very much reflected her personality; pink, cute but plain, as though she was scared to go overboard. It made John smile, actually; it was nice to have familiarity. Molly featured in a lot of fond memories.

She looked up to John, her lips curling in an uncertain smile as she deliberated on her words, "Sherlock, he, well he made a recording." She replied. John watched with soft eyes as Molly's features adjusted in thought. She moved her head ever so slightly, locking her eyes onto Sherlock. They remained, seemingly trapped in a silent conversation for quite some time, their eyes exchanging words in a language that was foreign to John. Eventually, Molly turned away with the slightest of blushes and smiled down at the table. Sherlock's head tilted and his unnatural, brown eyes lingered on John.

John hated it. Not understanding, not knowing what was happening; what did he record? Moriarty? Surely, John would have noticed if Sherlock had made a recording of Moriarty at some point – Moriarty would have noticed, too. Unless, not a video recording? Maybe a sound recording?

His metal questions were broken away suddenly by Sherlock's spoken ones, "How many copies did you save?"

"Erm," Molly hummed, narrowing her eyes as she mouthed numbers, counting silently, "Four. There's the original one on your phone, I've got one on my phone, one on my computer and there's the on an SD you told me to make."

A nod of approval ensued, a tiny smile twitching one corner of Sherlock's lips. Molly seemed proud, though only very fleetingly before she moved and delved into her pocket, retrieving her mobile phone.

Molly was incredibly smart, John realised. Well, of course she was, but she was smarter than she let on. She was especially smart if Sherlock had trusted her with something as important as helping him fake his death – but then, how long had they known each other? Quite some time, he supposed. They were already friendly when John had met him, which was a long while ago, now. Nonetheless, Molly was intelligent. Sure, she seemed uncomfortable in everything she did, she seemed shy and uncertain and sometimes John wondered if there was some long-term issue causing it, but she was kind, she was intelligent and Sherlock trusted her.

John jolted into consciousness as music began to play from Molly's phone. He turned to the pair of them questioningly. Was this a joke? _Staying Alive _and not a very good quality recording, either. However, his bemused smile faded quite quickly as he noticed the serious, solemn expressions that locked Sherlock's and Molly's features.

The music continued, growing louder, but then broken by a voice. A voice he knew, all too well; Moriarty.

"_Well, here we are at last."_

Everything, quite suddenly and quite quickly fell into place.

This was it, this was the recording of Sherlock and Moriarty. Their final meeting.

"_You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem."_

As he looked to Sherlock, John felt something odd rise in his chest. He tried to form words, but choked on them and as he did, he recognised what he was feeling; _dread_. He didn't want to hear this, he didn't want to know what had gone on. He didn't want to hear their death speeches, death marches.

But it played on, nonetheless. There was no mercy in Sherlock's eyes; he would not save John the weight of this. John wondered if Sherlock even understood how much it hurt John to hear this; to hear Sherlock Holmes's final words, up on that rooftop.

All the doctor could do was hang his head and try to detach himself from emotions as he listened. He listened and he felt everything that ran through their voices; the triumph, the amusement and the actual frustration in Moriarty's voice, accompanied by the confusion, the curiosity and the _fear_.

"_Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."_

"_Do it? Do what?"_

There was a silence after that. A thick, horrifying silence from both the recording and the room.

"_Yes, of course. My suicide."_

Sherlock's voice was what did it. John had to turn away and pinch the crook of his nose, features twisted and lips pursed. Sherlock had sounded so lost, so frightened. John couldn't help it; he felt guilty. He had been angry at Sherlock; he had been cruel, because Sherlock left him behind. It had never occurred to him, not truly, that maybe Sherlock had been afraid. That maybe Sherlock had felt dread, maybe he hadn't wanted to do what he did.

The clip played on and John didn't look up. His eyed remained quite firmly glued to the table, his lips pursed and fists tensed. It was hurting him, to hear all of this. He'd been angry at Sherlock for so long for what he'd done and now, he was starting to feel a little guilty.

Just a little.

"_Okay, let me give you just a little extra incentive."_

He looked up as he heard those words; incentive? As in, Moriarty was going to actually give Sherlock _motivation _to kill himself? His eyes, for less than a tenth of a second, flickered over to Sherlock's. What possible reason could Moriarty give Sherlock to-

"_Your friends will die if you don't."_

John choked on his own gasp, eyes widening a little. If hearing this before had hurt, well now it was _agony_. It stung, a lingering, nasty pain that coiled in the pit of his stomach and spread through his insides. It was guilt, it was regret. It was all those years of hating Sherlock coming back and slapping in him the face. Hard.

"_John!"_

With a surprisingly stable stature, John stood up. He stood up and he walked out of the room, out of the house and soon found himself walking down the streets of London. He wasn't going to anywhere, just from. Away from Sherlock and Molly and that final conversation.

There was only one thought on his mind and it was recurring. It embedded itself in John's head and grew. It latched onto the other thoughts in his mind, burdened them with this awful, agonising truth; _He did it for me._

* * *

"This really isn't in my job description, sir." He growled, though the irritation in his voice was mild at most, "You have other people who specialise in-"

"I do. But I've told _you_. So get to it." Jim replied. His eyes lingered for a moment, narrowing in an almost challenging manner. The man before him only tipped his chin and returned the gaze, not the least bit threatened.

They passed a few seconds like this, before the other spoke again, "It's a bit over the top, isn't it?" he questioned.

Moriarty sighed. He sighed a rather aggravated sigh. Today had been a difficult, long day. But it had also been a day of decisions. He knew what he must do to win this war; there was no longer room for mercy, nor elegance nor tact. The life he lived was now centred in a battlefield and if he wanted to protect what was left of his home and himself, he had to be _over the top_. He had to be bold and he had to win.

"Sometimes you need to be a little over the top to get a message across." He replied. He rose to his feet. Though he didn't match the height of the man in front of him, he still recoiled, triggering a light smirk from Jim. "I don't need to be over the top with you, _do I?_"

Despite the silky tone in his voice, his faithful henchman took a step backwards, "No."

"Good. Then you huff and you puff and you _blow her house down_."

* * *

John has three missed calls from Sherlock by the time he'd reached 221B.

He hadn't even been aware that was where he'd headed, that was just where he'd ended up. He didn't recall putting his phone on silent, either. He didn't recall anything except that one thought.

The one that kept replaying.

The one that changed everything.

The one that killed John Doe. The one that revived Sherlock Holmes. In his mind and in his heart, at least. In the eyes of others was an entirely different matter.

There was a package on the doorstep.

John had woken up enough to notice that much.

As he knelt down to examine it, another call from Sherlock came through. With a sigh, he answered, "Sherlock, there's a parcel here." He interrupted, cutting over whatever the detective had been trying to say.

There was silence, and then a question, asking what it was. John himself wasn't sure. He balanced his phone with his shoulder and ripped open the package. "Erm, it's straw. Just a parcel. Full of straw. Does that… Does that make any sense to you, Sherlock?" John asked, watching as a few strands of straw fell to the ground. "Sherlock?"

There was muted speech on the other end of the phone, ensued by rustling and movement. "John, I-" was as much as Sherlock managed to say before he was cut off.

John had worked with the army in Afghanistan for quite some time.

As a result, there were certain things he could recognise easily.

A good example would be what he had dealt with most weeks, what he has seen tear lives and families and homes apart and what had cut off his best friend mid-sentence; _explosions._

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **

**Once again, huge thank you to the ever amazing sgtpeants for being fabulous and being a huuuuuuge help. Check her out, she's an amazing artist, too.**

**sgtpeanuts . tumblr . com**

**sgtpeanuts . deviantart . com**


	8. This Little Piggy

**Chapter Eight; This Little Piggy**

Everything happened in one, incomprehensive blur.

The call, the realisation, the running, the falling.

Falling. That was certainly something that Sherlock had done a lot of recently; both metaphorically and physically. Falling. He remembered falling. The despicably memorable feeling of weightlessness, helplessness.

Falling from St. Bart's roof, falling from Moriarty's clutches, falling from John. Falling back into those clutches, falling back to John.

Except, he hadn't fallen back to John. He'd landed near John. John was just out of reach, just across the line that Sherlock couldn't touch and no matter how hard he thought about it, he didn't know how to apologise. How did he make John forgive him?

How did he get John back? How did he make John _happy _again?

It all happened in a matter of seconds and yet Sherlock had never been so uncertain of time. Everything had slipped into some form of slow-motion, time lagged and he became aware how painfully, agonisingly delayed every movement was.

The grip he took of Molly's arm was probably too tight, but now was not the time to care for that. The phone was safely thrown into his pocket, still playing that God-awful recording, but now was not the time to care for that, either. Now was the time for running.

"-_Straw. Just a parcel. Full of straw._"

How blatantly obvious. Moriarty had intended to play games, to start a new chapter, so why this? Why create a sloppy, simple clue and then _this_? Was Moriarty out of time, had he changed his plans too quickly?

Straw. Moriarty played games and told fairy tales. Moriarty was _the _story teller. The first well-known fairy tale that included straw was The Three Little Pigs; helpless, small pigs chased by the all-powerful, intelligent wolf. And what happened to the straw, the house of straw?

It was blown down by the wolf. So the question was; whose house was next?

* * *

"This little piggy goes to market, this little piggy stays at home. This little piggy causes trouble, this little piggy never learns. This little piggy pay the price, this little piggy _burns." _

Moriarty hummed to himself, a somewhat insane smile gracing his lips as he did. In the corner of the room, he sat by himself whilst across the room, the other man paced.

"I love riddles. Games. Stories. Fabrication and deceit, all woven together into one bundle of _fun_!" Jim chimed, continuously talking to himself, "They will pay. You know they will."

"Yes, sir." The other replied with a light smirk, "So you keep saying."

James hesitated, chuckled and then stood, "First the apartment, then his sister, then Sherlock. I like to watch them scurry and panic." He whispered, "It's funny."

* * *

Somewhere along the way, John lost his walking stick. There were no cabs, nor any time to wait around for one. But, walking was too slow and before he'd realised, he was running. Somewhere along the way, the cane left his hand and he didn't even contemplate stopping for it.

Too quickly, he turned his head to look to the side and saw sand. A sea of gold, damaged by debris buildings and suffering innocence. Explosions rang through his eyes and a heavy heat beat his back. For a few exquisite moments, he was back, on the battlefield.

He could feel it, threatening to erupt and yet – as he had many times before – he held onto it and used it to push him further. Fear. Adrenaline. Fear again. They danced a dangerous dance between him, delicately tiptoeing the line of John's sanity. They pooled in his toes and worked up to his gut, swam to his fingers and set alight his body, human instinct taking over basic thought-process as his mind screamed a single word, a lone syllable; _run_.

There were sirens in the distance. Noises of traffic and screaming suddenly filled his ears as he was violently thrown back into reality.

This wasn't Afghanistan. This wasn't war. His leg hurt. There was an explosion.

Sherlock.

He was screaming. Was that his name? Sherlock? He continued to scream nonetheless, barely grasping the ability to think as he ran.

The scene was coming into view now. The windows of Molly's house had all been blown out, alongside the door and several pieces of the front wall. The traffic had come to a halt; not even any diversions. Everyone and everything just stopped dead.

Time stopped moving in a linear pattern.

Time stopped.

Time started.

Panicking. Waiting.

Waiting, wondering, wishing.

* * *

"_Are you going to go after him?"_

_Her words, soft and anxious, drew his attention towards her. Brown eyes focussed and mind tried to comprehend whilst a shrug shook his shoulders. For a few moments, Sherlock simply watched Molly._

It struck him, every time he stopped to think about him - guilt. He used her, he really did. What was worse was that he was fully aware that he was using her; he toyed with the knowledge that she had feelings for him to gain what he wanted. He was fully aware and yet he did not relent because there was too much to lose if he did. Without her, none of this would have worked.

He would have died.

Had he ever said thank you? He doubted it. Sometimes – rarely -, he felt he ought to take her out for a meal or involve himself in some other affectionate gesture. In a way, that would be playing with her further; he had no interest in extending their relationship beyond the boundaries of friendship, so why lead her to believe that? At least like this, she knew nothing would come of them, but he gave her enough room to pretend. It was cruel, but could he really stop a woman from hoping? Rather to let her be happy in the idea of possibility than to douse those fires of hope.

God, he was starting to sound like bloody Mycroft.

As he stared at Molly, her previous words continued to ring through his head.

"_John's really loyal, you know. After you…left, I didn't see him much. But, when I did, he always smiled. Not a real smile, though, you know. Not like he used to. You could see the cracks."_

"_Cracks?" Sherlock had repeated, feigning a snide snort to hide the turmoil of guilt and sorrow that Molly had now planted in his mind, "How does a person have cracks?"_

_He remembered, quite vividly, the look of displeasure on Molly's features as he said that. She could see through his façade so clearly; she'd done it before, after all. "All I'm saying is, well, he was broken. Really, really hurt. I think it's going to take him a long time to understand why, that's all. Sorry if you think I'm being rude, it's just what I think." She murmured, throwing him one her sweet smiles._

_There were no further words after that. Not for a while. Molly seemed perfectly quiet, though Sherlock could hardly hear anything over his thoughts. _

"_Is he-" He paused, feeling ridiculous for what he was about to ask, "Is he fixable?"_

_She shrugged. For once, she didn't seem shy or anxious. "I don't know, Sherlock." She replied, before adding, "But I can see your cracks, too."_

Usually, he would delete conversations he didn't like. He'd remove them from his memory and never look back on them once again. But something about the idea of forgetting that particular conversation seemed wrong. Molly's words had been useful, no matter how painful; he and John were both broken, she said.

What did she mean?

Broken.

Realising he had been staring at Molly for quite some time, Sherlock eventually looked around the room. It was crystalline white and stank of blood and sick, fused with antiseptic.

A familiar smell, though oddly enough, not a welcome one.

Looking back to Molly again, she seemed so pale. Pale and ill, trapped in some sort of restless sleep. A sigh escaped him. Shouting sounded outside.

For a few moments, he tuned out. However, he quickly became aware that the shouting was just one, lone voice. A lone voice he recognised.

Carefully, he unattached himself from the various surrounding contraptions and wincing when it set off an entire orchestra of strange noises. Nonetheless, he ignored them and pressed towards the door. As he did, he began to assess his damage: the cold air hit him and set alight his various burns, whilst the weight on his left ankle caused a sharp shot of pain in every step. Three of his right-hand fingers seriously hurt and he couldn't move the middle and index – so, broken. There was a non-dismissible sense of dizziness and mild disorientation, assisted by a slight headache – could possibly be concussion, maybe the comedown from morphine. However, his hearing was fine; he could now hear every word John was shouting.

"You knew! You bloody knew everything!" he seemed to be repeating, "Who else? I know about Molly! Who else lied to me?"

Sherlock hovered in the doorway for a moment, trying to withhold a normal stance despite the agony that seemed to stem from almost everywhere. In the hallway, were two figures - though it was only John shouting. The other merely stood there, silently watching. Gently, quietly, Sherlock pushed the door open slightly more to get a better view. As he did, silence fell. John turned to stare at him and as did the other figure.

Mycroft. What was Mycroft doing here? More to the point, what was John shouting at him for?

Rather swiftly, Sherlock lost interest in his brother. For now, John was his main concern. Eyes adjusted and he stared at his best friend. He looked so small, so withdrawn and so _hurt_. Sherlock almost turned on his brother in that minute; accused him as the reason for John's hurt, blamed him for something he blatantly had not done. Sherlock was the only one who had hurt John.

"Sherlock," John whispered, interrupting the detective's thought process.

There it was again. Guilt. Regret. Anger, to some extent, but only at himself.

He saw it before he had time to respond; tears. Shaking. Within fractions of a second, John was reduced to a crying, convulsing mess. Mycroft looked on with a stony expression as Sherlock caught the doctor gingerly in his arms and held him there while he cried.

They stayed as such for what seemed a very long time. Every time Sherlock felt that maybe the crying had stopped, a new flood of shameful tears escaped his friend's eyes and, once again, slapped him with fresh guilt.

As he caught a glimpse of Mycroft, he remembered something he had once been told by his brother – something that Mycroft clearly still believed, by the look in his eyes.

"_Caring is not an advantage."_

Sherlock had been told that over three years ago. He was only just beginning to believe it.

* * *

"He's hurting."

"He's weak."

"He's my friend."

"He's _ordinary_."

Mycroft's gaze remained entirely stern, whilst Sherlock's lips pursed. "John is not ordinary." Replied the younger, turning his head ever so slightly to the side, "I'm fully aware you think much less of John that I do and I resent it. John is _not _ordinary."

No further response was voiced from the elder Holmes after that; he noted the familiar stubbornness and relented from arguing. Instead, he turned to look across the large, white room and lay eyes on another sleeping form. "And what about Molly, Sherlock?" he asked, returning his gaze once more to the consulting-detective. "I'm inclined to remind you that she is also severely injured and yet you have little regard for her, despite that she has been an important ally."

In one swift movement, Sherlock had moved his damaged form from the bed and to stand within inches of Mycroft, brow furrowed. "I would have thought you knew me better than that, Mycroft, but clearly I'm mistaken." He snapped in a low tone as the pair engaged in a rather deadly stare.

"You're angry." Mycroft replied, gently and yet in a rather eerie manner as he returned his brother's rage-fuelled gaze, "You're angry because everyone around you is hurting, Sherlock. And be warned; no amount of treachery or government favours will get you out of this web."

For a few moments, Sherlock remained frozen. Then, reluctantly, he withdrew and returned to sit on the edge of his bed. "I need help." He eventually admitted, rather bitterly breaking the silence, "From Molly, Lestrade, anyone. And most definitely John."

A slight smirk rose on Mycroft's features as he turned on his heel, "You were right, I suppose." The official murmured, as though it were a last-thought moment. He hesitated on his way out and half-turned towards his younger brother, "John certainly isn't normal. Not if Sherlock Holmes himself cares so gravely for him. And that, my dear brother-"

"Is my biggest disadvantage. I know."

A hesitation followed, before Mycroft proceeded to leave the room, "Good bye, Sherlock." He called, "Good luck."

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading!**

**God, it feels like it's been ages since I last updated! I've been pretty ill and had a Spanish exchange and lots of exams!**

**Not very happy with this chapter, but it needed to come up! I'll hopefully return and fix it up in due time.**


	9. Make Over

**Chapter Nine; Make Over**

It was an exceedingly rare occasion that John Watson felt the need for a drink.

For starters, he knew incredibly well how ridiculous drunks were - his sister being a perfect example.

Not to mention that he was a doctor - a _good_ doctor - who was entirely aware of the negative effects alcohol could rein on one's body.

On top of that, he was a soldier. He could not stand to be even slightly intoxicated – no matter where he was, he was certain to have his wits about him at all times.

Despite his many layers, however, John was only human. And all humans have their weak moments.

A stab of shame ran through his chest at the memory of yesterday's events. Had he really broken down like that, in full view of the Holmes brothers? Just picturing the pitiable state he must have looked caused John to shudder. And yet, that was not the primary issue on the doctor's mind.

No, there was something deeper.

With a shaky hand, John poured himself another small glass of whiskey. The events of the past few days were slowly starting to weigh down on him.

_Sherlock is alive._

That singular thought remained. It echoed throughout his conscious and yet never seemed to settle. It didn't seem real. It felt as though any second now, he would wake up. Fate would reach out and snatch away that peculiar, tanned young man claiming to be his best friend. Things would revert to the way they used to be once again; lonely, painful, and mundane.

For a while, John tried to absorb the fact that Sherlock really was here. The idea that this was real brought such stinging joy to his heart that he could never make himself truly believe it. Not yet.

Eventually giving up on trying to forcibly understanding such a thing, John began to muse over the other events prior to now. Being stabbed, his sister being kidnapped, the explosion- It was beginning to be a lot to handle. Too much.

No, no. Stupid. Nothing was too much. Everything was okay. Everything would be okay.

_It's not okay!_

John collapsed his head into his arms and simply breathed slowly for a few minutes. The sooner this was over, the better. He tried picturing it – Moriarty out of the scene and Sherlock back in it. That idea alone was so precious. Beautiful.

Like old times; Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Team. Best friends. Brothers. Consulting Detective and his the guy who blogged it. It needn't be glamorous – just comfortable. Happy. Was that too much to ask?

Rapidly, the doctor sat up and began tapping his lips. It wasn't like he was stupid. It wasn't like he was incapable. Merely, his mind was racing with such an array of…well, what? Everything. Nothing. Confusion. Weight.

He hated it. He loved it.

It was terrifying and yet it was so much better than feeling numb.

Numb. Not a feeling he wished to think about right now.

No, right now there were things to do. Plenty of them.

* * *

Bored. Throw. Bounce. Catch. Bored. Throw. Catch. Bored. Throw. Bored. Bounce. Bored. Catch. _Bored!_

Dear God, it had been an exceedingly long time since he had been _this_ bored.

That was a lie.

For the past three years, he had been perpetually bored. No exceptions. Without his life at 221B, things were dull. Sherlock had even grown to miss Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Everyone. All of them. In a twisted manner, he'd even missed the crooks. The murderers, the thieves, the kidnappers.

When he was alone, he was accompanied by his own intellectual thoughts. But he hadn't been alone in so long. The constant chatter of companionship, the everlasting buzz of boring thoughts; as aggravating as such things were, he missed them.

As though to answer his unspoken prayers, the door to the room opened.

"Get up."

A rather sudden demand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and, rather sullenly, folded his arms. Petulance wasn't particularly his thing, though boredom drove a man to peculiar things; he'd rather irritate John and drag out their conversation than co-operate and have John leave sooner.

"Get up?" the detective repeated; adjusting in his bed, "I'm not well. I was just victim to an explosion and you want me to _get up_? I thought you were an educated doctor, John. Rather seems I'm mistaken."

The doctor retorted only with a hardened stare at first, pursing his lips. Eventually, he sighed, and sat himself in the chair beside his friend's bedside.

An arrogant chuckle sounded from Sherlock, "You tell me to stand, and then proceed to sit. Doesn't seem at all hypocritical, I assure you."

Silence only ensued; evidently, John was not impressed. It didn't matter, the doctor was sat down which implied he would be sticking around for a while. Either that or his leg was hurting again.

"Sherlock-"

"No, no, let me guess. I've been exceedingly bored recently, humour me." The detective replied.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, twisting his fingers into his palm as he glared angrily, "You've been _bored, _recently? Do you know what _hell _I've been through?"

An apology formed on the detective's lips, though dissolved as John continued in his rage; "My _sister _was kidnapped, I was stabbed! Not to mention, I thought you were dead for God's sake!" he screamed, voice elevating further and further with each word. Sherlock cringed slightly, noticing patients staring – it wouldn't be long before a nurse stuck her nose in and yet, John proceeded. "And then that God-dammed explosion, I thought I was going to lose you, again! I thought I would have- That I might have-"

John stopped suddenly, choking on his words silently for a few moments. He tightened his lips and looked at the floor, almost shamefully. A few minutes of silence passed, in which he regained his composure – thankfully, before he was removed from the hospital, too. "Get up. You're done hiding. You're going to make the world believe in Sherlock Holmes, again."

"Don't be ridiculous." The detective replied quite sharply. "Moriarty is out there, up to something. This isn't it; this explosion wasn't meant to kill us, John-"

"Sherlock, for once, trust someone else." Snapped John. Sherlock evidently had further argument to push forwards, but John's expression told him it was probably a good idea to just shut up. "Right now, you need as many friends as you can."

The detective snorted. "All the more reason for the world to think I'm dead."

* * *

Despite Sherlock's objections – and the objections of the hospital doctors -, John got his friend home. Of course, the detective wasn't entirely happy about it, but John found he didn't care at all. There were priorities they needed to attend to right now and, as much as he disliked it, Sherlock's happiness was not one of them.

Sherlock winced but John ignored it, continuing to bind his left ankle. "You're going to have to walk on it anyway, so stop being a baby." He scolded, much to the other's displeasure. "And stop touching your hair! You'll get it everywhere."

A groan sounded from Sherlock as he slouched in his chair, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. "Are you sure you did it right?"

"I did exactly as the packaging said." John replied with a shrug, finishing with the bandage on his friend's ankle and standing up. He hovered from Sherlock's armchair and picked the small cardboard box from the table, turning it in his hands, "I think so, anyway."

Sherlock groaned in exasperation, "You think so?" he repeated, "I'm not entirely confident I should have left _you_ to dye my hair."

"It couldn't get much worse." Laughed John, dumping the hair-dye packet back on the table. "I mean, you're orange and bleach-blonde. Stop complaining, I'm making you better."

"I'm not orange." He mumbled under his breath. Though, for the next hour or so, Sherlock kept quiet. John washed his hair, ironed his old shirt, cleaned his burns and doped him up on painkillers. When John had finished, the detective stood in the bathroom mirror, adapting his appearance to his own taste.

The smallest of smiles – reminiscent, not particularly happy – rose on the corner of his lips, "Been a while since I looked presentable." Gently, he ran his fingers down the side of his freshly-shaven chin. From beside him, John snorted.

"You're still orange." He commented, "Don't forget the contact lenses."

The detective jolted suddenly, as though he had forgotten entirely about his fake green eyes. It took a while of fiddling, but Sherlock did eventually manage to get his contact lenses out and dumped them on the side of the sink. Neither would admit it, but both had forgotten what those vivid blue eyes looked like. In a way, John found it refreshing.

"You're you again." John commented quietly. It was strange. John didn't feel any happier with the detective than he did before. In his mind, he felt maybe if Sherlock looked the part, John could bring himself to cross that bridge between them. It seemed not. Not yet.

"You're not limping." Sherlock suddenly noted - dismissing the doctor's latter comment - as though such a major detail had escaped him; in truth, he hadn't seen a 'fitting' moment to bring it up. "You were limping right up until the explosion. No walking stick since."

John dropped his head and checked his leg for a moment, before returning his gaze to Sherlock with a gentle shrug, "Survival mode, I guess." He responded by way of explanation. Sherlock said nothing in return; though his eyes revealed something else. There was something deeper running through that enigmatic mind of his and yet John could tell nothing more – Sherlock was unreadable at the best of times.

* * *

"_Sally! _I said now! And Stan, I asked for that latte ten minutes ago!"

Dear God, it was all a nightmare. Busy didn't fit it – they were out of their depth. They had been for a long time. Sure, they coped within reason; most cases were solved, they were all competent in their jobs. It just wasn't as easy as it used to be, nor was it as exciting. The press were beginning to back off, at least.

Just when he was beginning to lose hope, the door to his office burst open. A tall, blonde man with glasses stood in the doorway. He wore a nice suit that seemed a little unfitting over his seemingly muscular build.

"Sorry, sir, got stopped on the way." He apologised, setting the hot drink down on his boss's desk, "Apparently there are two men here to see you, refusing to leave."

A snort. "Might as well send them up, if they're so desperate." He sighed, warming his somewhat withered hands on the polystyrene cup and sitting back in his chair.

Time or stress; he didn't know which was worse. One, the other or both. His hair had greyed, his body began to ache and his mind began to wonder and yet, he still held on. In a world of absolute _idiots_, he felt he'd picked something up. He wasn't sure what.

Regardless, his mind still vacated from time to time; reminisced, contemplated. He was doing such things when the door to his office opened once more.

"Look, I'm trying to solve cases here – murders, terrorist attacks, actual important stuff!" he complained, although somewhat half-heartedly as his visitors entered. "If you think you can just waltz in here, you got another thing-"

It happened quite suddenly. He dropped his drink. He dropped his sentence. He dropped his jaw.

"_Hello, Lestrade_."

He dropped his balance.

Before he could even fully register the faces before him, Greg had fallen off of his chair – rather literally. He tried to conjure words, but the same sentence resurfaced and resurfaced:

"You're supposed to be dead!"

Sherlock's placidity bordered amusement as he watched the detective inspector clamber back to his feet – and wipe the latte from his trousers. For a few, awful moments there was only confusion.

Then, of course, Sherlock finally spoke. "You've changed your hairstyle."

With an _inconspicuous_ sigh, John rubbed the side of his head. Greg only stared, continuing to maintain an open-jawed expression – gormless, one may go so far to say. Such remained for a few minutes more, before Lestrade rather spontaneously burst into laughter. Real, full bellied laughter.

"Oh dear God, you really are the real Sherlock Holmes. I thought you were dead for three years and you see it fit to comment on my bloody hair!" he exclaimed. Fortunately, the atmosphere seemed to ease, despite Greg's continued discomfort. "Can I ask you something, though? Why're you _orange_?"

* * *

"Fell out of his chair, sir. Coffee _everywhere_, you should have seen-"

The other speaker snorted through the phone, interrupting him carelessly. "Yes, yes, spare me the details. You can tell me the rest later, dearest. Maybe. Depends if I'm interested." He seemed to tease.

Stan smirked, moving to watch Greg, Sherlock and John from his desk. "The whole office is in havoc. The return of Sherlock Holmes! It's priceless."

"Well, I had a nasty feeling he'd do this. Don't worry, he won't undermine me. No one will undermine me." He replied, "And don't you know it, Sebby?"

The blond snorted, "Whatever you say, Jim. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"_Ha_!" Moriarty exclaimed, "And so do I."

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading!**

**This chapter was pretty light-hearted I think, but don't get used to it! Also, slight touches of Johnlock at points - couldn't help it! I love John and Sherlock's relationship, both as either romantic or friendly - either way, they're adorable.**


End file.
